Arrow: Damaged
by Bloodsong 13T
Summary: Oliver Queen spent five years in hell on a deserted island. Now he's returned home... or has he? A twisted psychological romp through everyone's (well, mine) favorite season - Season One.
1. Coming Home

**Coming Home**

 _CONTENT:  
_ Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: no  
Violence: no  
Nudity: no  
Sex: no  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

Forget what you think you know about where Oliver's been the five years he's been dead and gone, and what he's been doing. It's more fun that way ;)

NOTICE: I have no clear idea where this story will eventually go, or how it will end. It might end up being closed as unfinished. I thought I'd warn people now, just so you know.  
I DO know what the CHARACTERS want to do. I also know that if they get their way... that would be bad. So I need to figure out some sort of satisfactory resolution. ... I got nothin' :/ Perhaps some folks can help when I reach the end of my rope.

* * *

 **Coming Home**

==#==

Oliver stood looking out the hospital window, over the glittering lights of Starling City. His city, his home. His heart swelled. _Home._ Land of comfort: Heat, Food, Light. After an interminable Hell on Lian Yu, it was Heaven.

He heard a noise outside the door. He turned, automatically tensing for a fight, but that was a thing of the past. The door opened and his little sister burst in. "Ollie!"

Thea threw herself into his arms, and he caught her, a laugh escaping his chest. _How long has it been?_ The siblings hugged tightly, and then Thea made way for their mother.

Her eyes glittered with unshed tears of joy. "Oliver..." So much love in that one simple name. She held him tight. "Oh, my beautiful baby boy."

"Mom..." He closed his eyes, let himself dissolve in the strength of her arms.

"Hey hey, buddy!" Tommy came in next, grinning ear to ear. "Yachts suck," he proclaimed lightly, startling another laugh from Oliver's chest. "Jets are the only way to fly."

Moira moved aside so Tommy could close in to shoulder slap and hug his best friend, but she kept hold of Oliver's left arm, unwilling to let go of her miraculously returned son, not even for a moment.

"Tommy, man," Oliver said huskily, "I missed you so much."

"Me too, me too." The normally jovial playboy's voice almost broke. He stepped back, now shy in the face of such strong emotion.

Then Oliver's breath caught, for behind Tommy, hesitant, dark eyes guarded, stood Laurel. Hope sprang in him like a snared rabbit. "Laurel," he breathed. "I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry..." How could words convey the depths of his feelings? His heart clenched, like his fist around her image every night on that island.

She stepped forward, once, twice, her eyes searching his face, looking into his soul. Then, "I know," she said, and he was in her arms, his arms holding her tight, her warmth against him, the silken fall of her hair on his cheek, the smell of her.

"You're not mad?"

"I was," she confessed. "For the longest time." She pulled back just enough to look up into his eyes. "But you _died_ , Ollie. And so many times I wished you were back, wished that we could talk, wished that we could have another chance." Her eyes sparkled. "Now we do."

"I'm sorry I pushed you away," he blurted, his words tumbling out. "I'm sorry I was such a douche. It was the stupidest thing I have ever done, the worst thing I have ever regretted. I could never deserve you, Laurel, but I want to try. I want to be a better man, a man worthy of you, that you could really love."

And he did. He dedicated his life to her; his love, all his time and attention. They shopped for an apartment together, for housewares, for Laurel's quirky decorations. Soon it was time for a brand new tuxedo and a white wedding dress. Butterflies chased each other around Oliver's stomach.

A distant rumble of thunder brought his thoughts back, briefly, to Lian Yu. A dark place, cold, violent, full of pain. Where every day he prayed for salvation and every night he curled up in fear. He hadn't laughed in years, hadn't smiled, hadn't seen a smile. Suddenly, his Heaven seemed so very fragile indeed.

"Ollie?" Laurel entered their room behind him. "What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid." His voice was a bare whisper as tears spilled from his eyes. "I'm so happy. I'm afraid."

The lights went out; he wheeled, eyes wide, searching for Laurel, lost in the darkness. A moment later there was a blinding flash, then a roll of thunder. The afterimage of the fuselage was burned into Oliver's retina. Then sheets of rain rattled down on the old metal roof.

A dream. It had all been nothing but a dream.

Oliver felt a pressure in his chest, like a giant fist crushing his heart, squeezing tears from his eyes. He curled up, tried to choke down his sobs, but it hurt. It hurt too damned much. His body ached everywhere, inside and out. All he felt was pain, it was all just a matter of degree and flavor. Sharp pangs of hunger. Dull aches of bruises. A twinge when his right lung filled and stretched its scarred tissue. Grinding fatigue in his joints. Burning stiffness in his muscles. Pounding headaches. Everything, even down to stubbed toes and blisters on his hands, _everything_ hurt, and worst of all was the crushing despair.

His family, his friends, his life; they _were_ nothing but a dream. He'd never see them again; his only reality was this hell.

Oliver gulped and held his breath when he heard Slade shift. He didn't want the man to know he was crying again. Slade was a rock, a lump of iron. Oliver was just a mewling little kitten next to him. He didn't know how, or if, he could ever become tough like Slade.

Shado tried to teach him. It stung that she was with them now, and Oliver was still the only 'girl' in their company. A soft, helpless little girl that Mommy and Daddy had to take care of. At worst, he was the unwanted foster child they were stuck with. On good days, Slade treated him like a brother. Though often he was the pesky little sibling the bigger kids really wished hadn't tagged along.

Sometimes, Oliver just wanted to curl up and die. But that, too, hurt too much.

He curled up tighter, pulled the blanket over his head. He tried to pretend he was in his room, to pretend that Laurel was here and still in love with him. It was stupid and childish, but if he could just remember, for a moment, what it felt like... perhaps he could escape back into the dream and never return.

== _X_ ==


	2. The Oliver that Returned

**The Oliver That Returned**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: a bit  
Violence: none  
Nudity: none  
Sex: none  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

No, you didn't just read this chapter last chapter ;)

* * *

 **The Oliver That Returned**

==#==

Oliver stood looking out the window as darkness crept over Starling City and the lights began to come on, like the stars coming out at dusk. Only so many, many more. It was like being in the center of a galaxy. He swayed a little, overtaken by momentary vertigo. He locked his legs and raised his eyes to the horizon, a trick Dad had taught him to combat sea sickness. _Dad._ Oliver fought to keep his balance, to tear himself away from the memories that flooded him, threatened to overwhelm him and draw him into the maelstrom of a flashback.

 _Home._ Oliver focused on his grounding mantra. _I'm home._ He was home - there were lights, electricity, heat. Forget heat, there was air conditioning. The ventilation fan whirred quietly within the bowels of the hospital. The air was so clean, so sterile, that it stung his nose.

And his ears were cold. He suppressed the impulse to touch them, to touch the bristly hair for the millionth time.

He tensed as he heard a noise outside the door. He turned, ready to defend himself, yet holding himself in check. The door burst open, making him flinch, but he held it together. His mother bustled past the protesting doctor.

The sight of her pierced him, like a spear of light. "M-Mom?" He couldn't move.

"Oh, Oliver!" She rushed to him in a breeze of her essence, her perfume. She enveloped him in her arms. "Oh, my beautiful baby boy."

"Mom," Oliver blurted again, emotion thickening his voice. He wrapped his arms around her, clung like a desperate child. She was warm, alive. "Mom..." His mother, nurturing, caring, loving. How he had wanted for so long to just be held. Sheltered. Protected. "Mom." He cried without shame, his voice rising higher, leaving its strength behind. "Mom, Mommy. Mommy, Mommy, hold me; I'm scared."

"Shhh," she said, hugging him tighter. "It's okay, don't cry. Mommy's here." Her voice broke with her own tears. "I've got you. You're safe."

"Mommy... Mommy..." Oliver couldn't control his shaking. "Mommy...!"

A sharp impact jolted Oliver's world, courtesy of Slade's boot. "Wake up, kid. You're crying for your mommy again."

Oliver couldn't control his shaking. _It had been so real!_ He sat up, halfway, looked around the darkened fuselage. His home-away-from-home. His home-in-Hell.

He collapsed back on the makeshift cot. He had to turn immediately on his side to keep tears and mucous from running back into his throat and choking him. He curled up and threw the blanket over his head.

 _I want my mommy!_

If only it were so easy to make all this go away by the intervention of a grownup.

 _No, you don't,_ he told the petulant child within him. _If she were here, she'd only suffer, worse than you._

==#==

Moira felt Oliver start shaking. She tried to hold him tighter, to comfort him, but he went so stiff, so still, she had to step back and look at him. His glassy, unfocused eyes scared her. "Doctor," she called. "Doctor!"

Dr. Lamb hurried in with his colleague, Dr. Saunders. "It's all right, Moira," her physician said with a comforting hand on her arm. "Move away."

She let herself be pulled back. "What's wrong with him?"

Dr. Saunders approached Oliver warily. "It's going to be all right. He does this, he's in a sort of fugue state."

"Wh-?" Moira looked at Dr. Lamb with concern.

"I tried to warn you," he said gently.

The other doctor wasn't so kind. "It's _very_ important you do not try to touch him in this state. He could become violent. You shouldn't have run in here and tried to embrace him like that."

Moira's jaw dropped. Not hug her son? Her son, missing - _dead_ \- these five years, suffering who knew what. She was shocked speechless. Dr. Lamb squeezed her arm, silently urging her to restrain herself.

Saunders turned to Oliver, focusing solely on him. "Mr. Queen? Mr. Queen, it's all right. You're safe," he kept calmly reassuring Oliver, careful not to touch him.

Then Oliver shuddered, blinked, and his eyes came back into sharp focus. They darted around, while Oliver backed up, his arms rising in a defensive position. "What's going on?" he demanded in a hard voice. "Where am I?" He brushed at the tears on his face, frowned at the wetness on his hands.

"You're home," Dr. Lamb reassured him.

Oliver only looked suspiciously around the room.

"Mr. Queen," Saunders said, "you're at Starling General Hospital. You were rescued from an island in the south China sea. Do you remember?"

Oliver scowled. "Why are you holding me here?" His eyes, cold chips of flint, assessed the room and the three people in it. Moira felt a nervous twinge. But her son couldn't become violent. Wouldn't hurt _her_. Would he?

Dr. Saunders continued handling him firmly, but with caution. "Mr. Queen, no one is 'holding' you here. You're under observation after your trauma. Perhaps you'd like something to help you relax?"

"I don't want any of your damned pills!" Oliver snarled at him. "Or your shots!"

"Mr. Queen, you need to calm down."

Dr. Lamb disengaged from Moira to go to the door to summon orderlies from the hall.

"You do _not_ threaten me!" Oliver's eyes were wild, he tensed for a fight.

"No one is threatening you, Mr. Queen," Saunders said in an infuriatingly calm and condescending tone.

Moira found her voice. "Oliver, I'm here to take you home."

"Home?" His head snapped around to focus on her. His eyes went wide. "Mom?"

"Yes, Oliver, it's me. You're home."

"Home..." His voice lost its edge, its gruffness. He brushed a hand over his shorn hair and started shaking again.

"Mr. Queen, you should sit down."

"Home...?" Oliver wobbled away from Saunders' soliciting hand. "Is this real?"

"Yes, Mr. Queen. You really need to-"

Oliver's legs gave out and he sat down, straight down on the floor. Moira moved to go to him, but was brusquely pushed aside by two burly men in white. They moved to pick Oliver up and guide him to the bed under Dr. Saunders' instructions.

Moira found herself tugged in the opposite direction by Dr. Lamb's hand on her arm. "What happened? Doctor, what is going on?" They exited to the relative quiet of the hall.

"As I was saying, Moira, besides the wounds and scars, Oliver has suffered mental trauma."

"What's wrong with him?"

"He has these fugue episodes, like you've seen. He's very sensitive, especially to being touched."

"But 'reacting violently'?" she scoffed.

"He's been alone, without human contact, defending himself. So, yes, he is on somewhat of a hair trigger."

Moira's heart sank.

"He's sensitive to other things, too - smells, taste. He shouldn't be over-stimulated, and he may have trouble adapting to civilized food."

She put her head in her hands. She'd gotten her son back, but in pieces it seemed. In trying to suppress a sob, she gave an unladylike hiccough.

Dr. Lamb handed her a tissue. "He has occasional blackouts, and flashbacks. Moira... you need to prepare yourself. The Oliver that returned might not be the Oliver you lost."

She looked back towards the room, and that stranger, that deranged man. "So you're telling me," she said woodenly, "my son is still lost to me."

"He just needs to heal. Dr. Saunders is a leading-"

"I don't like Dr. Saunders."

"You haven't really met the man."

"We have our own mental health professionals."

"With all due respect, ma'am, an upscale therapist is not exactly used to dealing with PTSD."

It had to be bad if Dr. Lamb started calling her 'ma'am' or 'Mrs. Queen.' Still, they could not stop her from taking her son after his obligatory 'overnight observation.' Dr. Saunders laid out the rules of how to handle Oliver in his state, and Moira briefed her family and household staff.

==#==

Oliver woke slowly, to the indistinct murmur of voices. he had to know what they were saying. Woozily, he sat up, feeling as if he were moving under water. _The drugs_. He was in a hospital. He was home.

His bare feet slid to the cold tile floor. He took a few deep breaths, trying to shake off the sedatives. He wobbled like a drunken sailor to the door. There were more voices now, still indistinct. Oliver leaned against the wall, pulled the door open.

"There is extensive permanent damage," he heard the doctor droning. "There are burns and scar tissue over thirty per cent of his body, twelve fractured bones that have healed improperly. He shouldn't have survived."

"He shouldn't have come back," Moira's voice said.

"Mom?" Oliver's voice was weak.

"Robert should have lived. I need my husband back."

Oliver tried to speak up, go to them, but his tongue was lead, his muscles too weak.

"He shouldn't have lived," Tommy said sadly. "He shouldn't have survived all that. He's not the same."

Stung by this betrayal, words of denial on his lips, Oliver staggered out into the hall. He approached the door the voices were coming from.

Then he froze. Because she spoke.

"He shouldn't have come home," Laurel spit with vehemence. "It should have been Sara! I want my sister back.

"He doesn't deserve to live."

"He doesn't deserve to live," the voices chorused.

Panic quickened Oliver's heart. He reversed course, away from that door - too late! It burst open, and faceless black ops soldiers charged out. "Make sure he never leaves this place alive."

Oliver ran, through long, darkened halls, turned endless corners. Where was the way out? His feet slapped on the cold tiles. The drumming of booted feet echoed behind him, drawing closer, closer.

Cold tile turned to cold steel, corridors to cages. Oliver darted between them, lost in the maze. Bodies lay inside some of the cages, motionless. Lifeless?

He pushed himself around one more corner and stopped dead, facing a familiar figure, turned into a stranger; a cold, cold woman.

"S-Sara?"

"Prisoners do not speak." She raised a gun, shot him without hesitation.

The bullet ripped through his left side, the shock and pain threw him back, threw him to the cold, unyielding floor of the cell. A steel pan with some crude instruments and bandages clattered down beside him.

"What is this?" he wailed.

"Test," the dark Russian said above him. "To see if you are strong enough."

"Strong enough for what?" Oliver gritted his teeth against the biting pain and reached for the medical supplies.

"To survive worse."

The tray of bandages stayed tantalizingly out of reach. "Help me," Oliver gasped. He was losing strength rapidly. "Help me!"

He thrashed weakly in the bed.

"I've got you, Ollie." A warm hand stouched his cheek. Blearily, he opened his eyes. "L...? Shado?" He blinked; the world was still dark and fuzzy. "You're alive? Sl... Slade?"

Shado looked over her shoulder, and Oliver followed her gaze. He could just make out the form of the burly Australian sitting there, blackened against the darkness. One eye gleamed back at them.

Shado turned back to Oliver. "What happened to you on that ship?"

"Ship?" Oliver struggled to remember. "I... I was home. Th-They rescued me, and... Y-You were - You weren't there. And-And th-then they... s-said I didn't deserve to live. They didn't want me."

"You're still here, Oliver, with us," she said soothingly. Slade rasped something else, something unintelligible.

"I was... so sure this time." Weariness crept over Oliver, threatened to drag him down into blackness. "Why do I keep dreaming of home?"

==#==

The next day, Oliver was silent and still in the limo on the way home. Moira wasn't sure if she would disturb him with talk, or if she should just let him drift. Her fear of that glassy-eyed dead stare made up her mind for her. "Is everything all right?"

"It's just so... I can hardly believe it's real."

Moira's first instinct was to touch her son, reassure him of this reality. But Dr. Saunders' warnings made her second guess herself. She moved her hand slowly, making sure he saw it, and when he didn't flinch, she put it over his own, squeezed gently. "It is, Oliver. You're home." She had to keep reassuring him about that, Dr. Saunders had emphasized.

She tried to read Oliver's facial expression, but found it closed to her. She'd noticed he seemed tense - scared, even - around all the people and noise of the hospital. The quiet confines of the car settled him, but now that they'd left the city buildings behind for shadowy suburban roads, he began to tense again. He pulled away from her hand and she let go. "It's all right," she murmured in assurance.

Oliver all but leapt from the car when it stopped, and looked around the grounds as if expecting something to spring out and attack. He jumped when the driver came around to take the bags out of the trunk.

"It's all right," Moira reminded him, coming slowly to his side. "It's safe. You're home." She kept talking to him, prattling on about the house, his room, trying to instill a sense of normalcy.

Oliver seemed dazed by it all. He didn't seem to hear the maid inform them of their guest. When Walter approached to greet him, he went into one of those blank stares.

"You remember Walter?" Moira prompted him. "Walter Steele, your father's friend." She feared she was losing him as he retreated inside his mind. She stopped Thea as she ran in, aiming to throw herself at her long-lost brother. "Easy, Thea," she told the bewildered and angry teen. "Let's not overwhelm him."

Oliver looked at Thea, his face blank. Didn't he recognize his own sister? Thea drew back from the unsettling look. Moira's heart sank. Would she have to explain who Thea was, too?

Then Oliver blinked. "Wh-? S-Speedy?"

"Yes, Ollie. It's me." She smiled.

"But... how? What... What happened to you?" His eyes darted over her, noting her clothes, her figure.

"Ah, I grew up?" Thea half-teased.

"In two years?"

Thea shared a puzzled look with her mother. "Oliver," Moira said gently, "you've been gone five years." Surely they'd told him this? "Thea is 17."

"Five? Five years...," he trailed off, his eyes going unfocused again.

"Ollie?" Thea reached for him, but Moira intervened again. "What's wrong with him?"

"He's just a little overwhelmed. Give him some time."

Then Tommy Merlyn breezed in with his usual brash manner. "Hey, buddy! What'd I tell ya? Yachts suck!"

Oliver whirled at the sudden commotion, and seemed about to attack, but then something happened, something worse. Oliver froze in mid-motion. His eyes went blank, unseeing, but instead of remaining still, he began shaking violently.

"Is he having a seizure?" Tommy asked in alarm. He moved to help his friend.

"Don't touch him!" Moira warned hastily. "He's having a flashback. Oliver! Can you hear me?"

He started screaming. "Sara! _Sara!_ " His body jerked; he fell against the table, knocking it over, spilling photographs and the vase to the floor.

"Oh my God!" Thea jumped back in shock and fear. Walter stood frozen, Tommy as well, a horrified look on his face.

Moira knelt next to Oliver's thrashing body, resisting the urge to try to hold him still. "Oliver! You're home - you're safe! Oliver, it's your mother. You're all right. You're home, come back to me, my brave boy."

"Help! _Help me! Dad!_ " His shout felt like a bullet in her chest. He was reliving the sinking of The Queen's Gambit all over again, right in front of her. "Help! _No!_ Sara! No, Dad, no! She's still out there!"

Moira swallowed her tears. "Oliver, you're home. It's just a nightmare, baby. Wake up, baby, please wake up..."

With a final gasp, Oliver's eyes opened wide. "What happened? Where am I?" He floundered about, trying to stand. "What's happening?"

"Easy, easy! You just had a flashback." Moira tried to help him up, but he flinched back. "Mind the glass."

"Tommy," Oliver said, looking around as he stood. "Thea." Neither answered, uncertain what to say, what to do. Then Oliver narrowed his eyes at Walter. "What are you doing here?" he growled.

"I..." Walter stuttered. He looked to Moira.

She told Oliver, "I'll explain in a minute. Let's get you cleaned up, get you a glass of water."

==#==

"Sweetheart..." Moira took Oliver aside in the kitchen while the others went to the dining room where Raisa served lunch. "Things have changed since you've been gone. Walter and I are married now."

She tried to break it to him gently, but she saw a brief tension run through him as if he suppressed a flinch from a blow. "Are you okay with this, Oliver?"

"What difference does it make?" he replied bitterly.

She had no answer to that. "I don't want you to think we did anything to disrespect your father."

To her surprise, tears sprang into his eyes. He blinked, turned away, tried to hold them back.

"Oliver..." She reached out to him, but he pulled away. "I'm so sorry."

"No. He choked down his emotions. "No, it's... all right, Mom. I know you didn't... I just need time."

"Of course, sweetheart."

Oliver composed himself and seemed fine during lunch, though he avoided looking at Walter. He picked at his food, which was expected. Then Raisa brought him some peanut butter and honey on toast, his childhood favorite, and his face lit up like a kid's. He wolfed down two slices and managed a 'moar, pease' with his mouth full. Everyone chuckled, and Raisa went to make a big batch, more suitable to a man-sized Ollie.

Tommy captured most of Oliver's attention, keeping up a non-stop prattle of trivia and pop culture Oliver had missed. Nothing serious, nothing weighty. He was a good friend, with so much depth hidden behind his carefree facade.

Then Thea stopped the conversation cold when she asked what it was like, on the island. An innocent question, perhaps.

Oliver looked down at his plate, a shadow crossing his face. Finally, he rasped, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Sorry," Thea mumbled. Moira patted her hand.

Tommy jumped into the gap. "Hey, there were no steak houses, no beer, _lousy_ cell reception, and worst of all? No toilet paper!"

Moira looked in alarm at Oliver, worried that Tommy had gone too far, but he smiled and even managed a little laugh. "Yeah. That about sums it up."

"So tomorrow," Tommy continued smoothly, "you and me, doing the town. We can scope out a venue for your party."

"Party?"

"Dude." Tommy looked seriously at his friend. "You have to have a coming back from the dead party."

Moira said, "That's a little fast, Tommy. Give him some time to recover."

"No, Mom; I'm fine. I wouldn't mind a little drive around town."

"You have your appointment tomorrow," she reminded him, not mentioning that it as with a mental health professional.

"Well, after," Oliver said optimistically. "Around like three? I'll call you."

"You have a cell phone?"

"Uh..."

Thea choked down a giggle.

Walter said, "We'll get you set up."

Oliver still avoided looking at him. "Sure."

"Great," said Tommy. "I'll seeya then."

Moira followed him to the door for a private word. "Tommy... Oliver might not be up for any activities so soon. You saw... how he is." She ducked her head in embarrassment.

Tommy's mien grew serious. "I know," he said quietly. "Don't worry, Aunt Mo. I'll take him for a ride, just him and me, in a safe, quiet car. It might help him get back, you know?"

She nodded, relieved. "You're a good boy, Tommy." She kissed him goodbye on the cheek.

"Ah, well," he stammered. "Don't tell the ladies; they really do go for the bad boys."

She chuckled. "Go on."

As Tommy turned and went down the steps of the portico, a dark limousine pulled in around the curve of the driveway. Tommy frowned at it, his whole demeanor changing. Quickly he looked away and went to his car.

Moira scowled as well, and marched over to the limousine before it's passenger could emerge. The tinted window rolled down. "What are you doing here?" she snapped without preamble.

"I just wanted to see how Oliver was doing," Malcolm said.

"You weren't invited. In fact, you were specifically _not_ invited. Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Really, Moira, this animosity is uncalled for. You know I have nothing against your son, despite the differences between Robert and I. I feel terrible for what he must have been through."

"Then you understand why I don't want you here." She glared down at the man. He protested innocence in the sinking of The Queen's Gambit, or at least a 'miscommunication.' Moira had a different story from a source in Malcolm's organization, but no solid proof, either way.

"Has he said anything about Robert? Did Robert tell him anything about the Undertaking?"

Fury boiled up inside Moira. "His father _died_ when the yacht sank, in front of his eyes! How can you be so callous?"

"I sympathize, Moira," he said placatingly. " I _do._ But after so many years, coming so close to our goals, we can't let a random vector come into conflict with our plans. For all our safety - Oliver's included - we have to find out what he knows."

"He doesn't know anything."

"Are you sure?"

"Even if he does, he's in no condition to oppose us. He's... damaged."

Malcolm looked sorrowful. Moira could almost believe he had feelings. "Maybe when he's settled in, I could talk to him."

"No."

"I am his godfather, Moira."

She glared at him. "Get off my property, Malcolm. And stay the hell away from my family!" She turned and marched back to the house, muscles tense to keep from shaking.

She barely heard the purr of the limo as it slithered away.

==#==

After lunch, Oliver had gone to get a shower and a nap. It had taken a lot out of him, that small bit of human interaction, plus the flashback. He debated taking one of the pills Dr. Saunders had sent him home with, then finally figured he was too tired to need a sedative.

He made an effort to show at dinner, but he avoided conversation by staring at his plate the whole time. He could tell Thea was unhappy with his silence, but he was just too tired to be able to do anything about it.

His plate was different from the others. He had only some simple greens, a plain pork chop. On the one hand, he felt slightly humiliated, given the kiddie meal. On the other, he was grateful he didn't have to deal with the smell and harsh taste of sauces and spices.

When the fishing boat had rescued him, he'd wolfed down all the food they had given him, and then promptly threw up. Still, he couldn't stop himself from stuffing his face. After the third time, they gave up wasting their food on him.

After dinner, he went straight back to his room and paced. He was tired, but not sleepy. Truth be told, he was afraid of going to sleep and dreaming of being back on the island. Or worse, of waking up from this dream and still being there.

Eventually, he lay down, but he couldn't get comfortable in the suffocating softness of the bed, so he threw a pillow and blanket down on the floor and curled up there.

 _I'm home,_ he repeated as his eyes drifted closed. _This is not a dream._

==#==

A storm rattled the windows of Queen Mansion in the night. Moira got up, certain she'd heard a clattering from Oliver's room. She threw on a robe and went to check on him. "Oliver?" She could feel the chill blowing from under the door. "Oliver?"

She went inside, wary of startling her son, though how he could be asleep with all the thunder and noise, she didn't know. Unless he was caught up in one of those nightmare memories again.

Instinctively, she rushed to the windows - they were thrown open, swinging in the wind, and letting the rain soak everything. She let out a frightened gasp when she came upon the crumpled form on the floor, but another flash of lightning revealed it was only some bedding.

Moira secured the windows quickly, then turned to the bed. "Oliver?" she called again. She couldn't see, and the lamp wasn't working. Walter came in with a flashlight moments later.

The bed was empty. The sweep of the light revealed that the armchair was empty, the bathroom door open, empty. No one was here.

"Oliver? Where's Oliver?" Moira turned to Walter, who could only shrug helplessly.

They looked for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Finally, Walter convinced her there was nothing else they could do tonight, but wait for him to return. He went back to bed, while Moira sat up, waiting... waiting for her baby boy to come back home.

What if he wasn't really there at all? What if it had been just a dream?

== _X_ ==


	3. Therapy

**Therapy**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: no  
Violence: no  
Nudity: no  
Sex: no  
Other: none

* * *

 **Therapy**

==#==

Rain left Lian Yu a cold place of grey skies and black foliage. They'd had to flee the fuselage. What happened? Mortar attack.

Oliver pried himself off the ground that was warm only directly beneath his body. He shivered. "Slade?" he called weakly. "Shado?" Had they survived? They couldn't be dead. What kind of cruel irony would leave him the sole survivor? He was the least-equipped to continue living.

"Shado?" he croaked a bit louder. He staggered to his feet and headed towards a lighter area ahead, a clearing of some sort. He needed to get his bearings.

In the clearing he found two stone markers. Slade and Shado? Had they died long ago and he just... forgot? Living in a dream where they were still alive?

In a panic, he rounded the stones, looked - and saw his own name! _Oliver Queen. 1985 - 2009._ His legs gave out. _I'm dead._ The second stone was his father's. _I'm dead, and this is Hell._

"Noooo," he moaned uselessly. He leaned forward, touched the gravestone - it was solid, it was real. "Noooo...!" He rubbed his hand back and forth over the letters, leaving a smear of dirt, but unable to erase the graven truth. "No, no, no..."

He sobbed, rocked so his forehead hit the stone repeatedly. "I don't want to die... Laurel," he lamented his lost love. "Dad... Mom! Thea... Nooo... I'm sorry!"

"Ollie?"

He heard his sister's voice, so clear, so pure. "No, no, no, no..."

"Ollie... hey."

Thea approached her brother like she would a wounded animal. Slowly, with compassion yet caution. "Ollie." She crouched down a few feet away, her pajama bottoms brushing the wet grass. "Ollie, what's wrong?"

"I'm dead," he sobbed.

"No you're not," she told him. "Ollie, look at me. You're not dead."

Hesitantly, he looked up. Flinched. "Why are you here? I don't want you to go to Hell, Speedy."

It was almost funny, except his heartbroken pain was so real. "I'm not," she assured him, hooking her hair back behind her ears. "And you're not, either. The yacht sank... and we thought you were dead. For the longest time." She swallowed against a thickening in her voice. "But you were rescued. Remember? You came home."

"Home?" He remained curled on himself, looking at her from his pale eyes. His voice sounded plaintive.

"Yes, Ollie; you're home." She repeated the words her mother always used. "You're safe." She stretched out her hand. "Let's go inside, okay? It's freezing."

==#==

Moira wrapped her robe tighter around herself an followed Thea into the kitchen. Oliver sat huddled in a blanket, shivering and drinking from a steaming mug. Raisa hovered nearby.

"What happened?"

"I found him outside," Thea said.

"I give him warm soup," said Raisa.

Oliver blinked in confusion.

Moira went to him, examined his face. It looked partly scrubbed by the housekeeper's cloth, but dirt still darkened the bristly beard. "Where were you?"

"I-I don't know."

"Why did you leave the house? We were worried sick about you."

"I..." He frowned. "I left? I don't remember."

"What is the last thing you remember?"

"I... I went to bed. I... no. I couldn't sleep. I slept on the floor," Oliver mumbled. "Then I woke up. Th-There was a grave." He shivered and hunched deeper into the blanket. "I was dead."

"You're not dead, Ollie," Thea told him firmly.

"There was a storm," Moira told him. "You couldn't have been out in it all night, could you?" She touched his arm, and he jerked as if he'd been jolted by an electric shock. "Oh no!"

He went rigid, his eyes cloudy; the mug slipped from his trembling hands as he went into another flashback.

"Oliver, you're home; you're safe." She started her mantra again, wishing she could just hold her baby boy and make everything all right. "No, Thea, don't touch him." His sister just wanted to help. She fled when he started screaming. Moira did her best to reach him.

They would have to report this blackout to Dr. Arita. Yet another symptom of his exile. Hopefully, the doctor could help them all through this.

==#==

"When I was on the island, I would dream that I was rescued, that I came home." Oliver lay on the chaise couch, looking at the beige ceiling in Dr. Arita's office. "Now that I'm home, I keep dreaming I'm still on the island. Sometimes... I can't tell any more, which is the dream, and which is real."

"I can assure you this is not a dream, but a dream person would probably say that, anyway." Dr. Arita was a mixed-heritage woman with dark hair and bronze skin. She had a soothing voice. Oliver liked her.

"I'm sure this is real," he said. "I never dreamt of coming home and having to see a shrink." He pursed his lips. "Sorry, 'psychiatrist.'"

"It's all right. Can you tell me about your dreams of returning home?"

"I'm rescued from the island, by a Chinese fisherman. I end up in Hong Kong..." He frowned to himself, trying to recall. "I call my mom... or I try to get my email... I don't remember. There's someone holding me prisoner in Hong Kong."

"Prisoner?" the doctor queried.

Oliver shook his head with a small laugh at himself. "No, it's the consulate. Red tape. I have no passport; I can't prove who I am; I've been dead..."

"And this is the dream? Not what actually happened?"

"No, it's what happened. I think. But... the thing is, I barely remember any of it. I was in such a haze... trying to cope..." With the crowdedness of Hong Kong, the noise, the people, the smells, the rushing, the danger...

...

"Mr. Queen?"

"What?" Oliver sat up a bit, looking around. He recognized Dr. Arita's office. "Where-? Did I drift off again?"

"Yes."

"Sorry. Where was I?"

The doctor made a note in her pad. "You were telling me about your dreams of returning home."

"Yeah... the next part is pretty clear. Most of the time, I'm in the hospital in Starling City."

"Most of the time?"

"Sometimes I dream that I escape the island... and I come back on my own. Sometimes I sneak back into the city... sometimes I burst in dramatically..." Oliver grinned wryly at his subconscious mind's imagination.

"Then what happens?"

"Then I see... my family, my friends. It's different people. My mom is there, usually. My girlfriend. My sister, my best friend Tommy. Sometimes my dad is there... those don't last too long."

"Sounds like a real party, kid," said Slade, barely glancing up from sharpening his swords.

"It does, and I get that. But what I don't get..." Oliver sat up on the edge of the cot. "Look, the dream goes on. I'm home, I'm happy. Right? But little by little, things... seem off. You know?"

Slade just shrugged. "It's a dream, whaddya want?"

Shado threw a root at Oliver. "Talk and work!" They were trying to peel and cook some roots, wishing they were real potatoes.

Oliver growled in frustration, picked up his knife and set to work. "If it's a perfect dream world, why do I keep dreaming that it all goes wrong? That everyone ends up hating me? Or I dream that they don't _want_ me back. They want me dead." They were only dream people, but it hurt.

Shado said, "Everyone in the dream is you, really, aren't they? Aspects of you. So that means some part of you doesn't want to go home. Some part of you feels guilty. Or... unworthy or... something." She trailed off in embarrassment for saying something so deep, so personal.

"Yeah, what could be better than living on a non-tropical island with us?" Slade quipped. "Really, kid. They're just dreams."

"But they're so real. You know, last time, I dreamt I had to go to a shrink."

At that, Slade burst out laughing. "Well, part of your mind is trying to tell you, you're nuts!"

"Slade," Shado complained.

Oliver tried to laugh it off, but it sounded wooden in his ears. Inside, a tiny voice was crying. _I want to go home. I want my mommy._

== _X_ ==


	4. Back in Town

**Back in Town**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: a bit  
Violence: no  
Nudity: no  
Sex: implied/discussed  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

Sorry if the story seems rather disjointed. But... heh, that's the story.

* * *

 **Back in Town**

==#==

The Queen Consolidated steel foundry was deserted, boarded up, surrounded by fencing and warning signs. Around it were more old buildings, run down by time and neglect. A tenement, a pawn shop, some boarded-up storefronts. A few people stood about, nothing better to do - the disenfranchised, the dispossessed. And those that preyed upon them.

"Your dad got of here just in time," Tommy remarked. "The whole neighborhood's gone downhill." He bit his lip. "Man, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to talk about-"

"It's all right," Oliver said, his voice steady, almost detached. Tommy shot a glance at him, but Oliver seemed relaxed and alert enough. He seemed quite normal today.

"Why did you want to come down here, anyway?"

"Isn't the old Brimstone club near here?"

Tommy quirked a brow. "Man, that place got shut down a couple years ago."

"Damn; that's a shame. That was the best threesome we ever had."

Tommy felt vaguely uneasy about that night. He'd been ridiculously drunk, so he didn't remember much of it, mercifully. He remembered agreeing to be tied up, and Oliver with a riding crop. Those things he did to that girl, forced her to do - but that's what she'd wanted, right?

He shot another glance at Oliver, who sat slouched back at ease, his legs splayed comfortably. His T-shirt stretched a bit tightly over his chest, doing nothing to hide that brawn he had put on, those big biceps. Everything was pretty tight on Oliver now, Tommy realized with some envy. He could almost smell the testosterone; Oliver was definitely on the pull. After five long years, it probably wasn't toilet paper that Oliver missed the most.

As a loyal wingman, Tommy needed to get his friend laid, stat. "What about The Cage?" he suggested.

"Really? Padded cuffs and feathers?" Oliver scoffed.

"I'm not really into that hardcore stuff. Why don't we hit the clubs tonight?"

"Can't you look in that infamous little black book of yours and round up a private party at the Aston-Quartermaine?"

"Weren't you banned from that hotel?"

"For life." Oliver snickered. "One advantage to being dead."

Tommy chuckled. "You know, I was going to be sensitive and not mention this, but you should have seen your funeral. All those starlets and models in mourning..."

"Did you get lucky?"

"Luck had nothing to do with it. And, to answer your unspoken question - it was like shooting fish in a barrel." He grinned.

"Good! Glad to help out a pal." Oliver turned away from the window a moment later. "Now it's your turn to die so I can get laid," he said darkly.

A chill went through Tommy.

Then Oliver laughed. "The look on your face! Come on, man. That was funny."

"Ah ha ha," Tommy said sarcastically. It was so good to have Oliver back to his old self. Mostly.

"So can you set us up this party? And what about the insurance?"

Tommy frowned as he negotiated an intersection, heading towards a better part of town. Insurance? For wrecking the hotel? Then it dawned on him. Oliver was talking about roofies. Insuring them a compliant date, when they were younger. "You don't need that, trust me."

"It can't hurt," Oliver said casually, attention fixed outside the window again. Was he eyeing some of those prostitutes? "Hook me up, will ya?"

"I don't do that any more."

"Seriously? Tommy, the only reason you joined that fraternity was because they had the highest rate of scoring ass. Plus that sweet honey trap they had set up."

Tommy frowned. "That was years ago. Really, Ollie, I'm not a swinger any more."

"What?" His buddy turned to him in shock. "Tommy '50-Yard-Line-Orgy' Merlyn? Who are you, and what have you done with the real Tommy?"

"Ha-ha."

"Next you're going to tell me you don't get high."

"Only on weekends."

"Jesus, Tommy! What did your old man do to you? Snip off your balls and turn you into a 'responsible adult'?"

Tommy didn't get along with his father - frankly, he had a deep-seated anger towards him, but there was no call for Oliver to go that far. "There's... a woman I'm serious about."

"Oh my God! You mean Angelina Jolie finally answered one of your lovesick fan mails?"

"Shut up!" He flushed.

Oliver laughed. "So do I know this special someone?"

Tommy's stomach clenched. _That's right, mouth, get me in trouble again._ "I... I'd rather not say. She kinda doesn't know yet."

"It _is_ Angelina Jolie!"

"Oh shut up, you douchebag."

Oliver grabbed his jacket. "Let me out here."

"Wh-What?" Instinctively, Tommy hit the brakes as Oliver grabbed the door handle. "Hey, man, I didn't mean it."

Oliver tossed him a lopsided grin. "I'm not mad, I just got something I gotta do." A Toyota cut them off and Oliver was halfway out the door. "Seeya!"

"But- _wait!_ Oliver, how are you gonna get home?"

His friend turned back. "I _do_ remember how to call a cab." He threw his jacket on, pulled a ball cap from his pocket, and started walking away.

"Call me!" Tommy frowned. Eerily, Oliver had vanished into the flow of pedestrians. Tommy craned his neck, but couldn't see any sign of him. "Good luck, buddy." He paused to flip the bird at the guy laying on the horn behind him. "Good luck to me," he added as he turned around to drive. "Auntie Mo is gonna kill me."

== _#_ ==

"You let him go off on his own?" It was starting to get dark, and Tommy couldn't put off returning to Queen Mansion any longer. "Tommy, how could you leave him?"

"It's not like I had a choice."

"Oh, so he leapt from a moving car?" Moira asked with sarcasm.

"Not exactly... but yeah!" This was so like his childhood - Oliver pulling some stunt, and Tommy left holding the bag. "He said he'd call a cab. Or me. I said I'd come get him if he called - my cell is on."

"We should call the police. Where did you see him last?"

"We can't call the cops. He hasn't been gone that long."

"Where did you drop him off?" she repeated. "And when?"

"Uh..." He was so screwed. "Downtown... this afternoon."

"That was hours ago! Anything could have happened to him!" She paced, worry etching her features. "How could you let him go off alone And not tell me? You saw what he's like."

"I did see what he's like. Aunt Mo, really! He was fine. He was back to his old self. That shrink must be a miracle worker."

She whirled on him. "He told you he was seeing a psychiatrist?"

"Uhh..." Oops. "No. It seemed kinda obvious?"

Moira sighed in exasperation. "Surely the police will make an exception for someone in his mental state." She marched towards the phone. "Don't you have _any_ idea where he went or what he could be doing?"

Oh, hell. "Uhh..." How to explain to Oliver's mom that the police's best bet was to talk to the hookers downtown?

"No," came a voice from the hall. "He really doesn't."

Oliver appeared, his jacket zipped up, ballcap in his back pocket, a self-satisfied grin on his face, and Moira ran to him, gasping his name in relief.

"Whoa." He fended her off. "I need a shower. Badly."

"Oliver, where have you been?"

"I was alone on that island for five years."

"Yes, but-"

" _Alone._ " He gave her a meaningful look. "Do I have to draw you a picture?"

Moira's cheeks reddened. "Well... at least... Let someone know where you are. And answer your phone!"

"Sure," he said, not bothering to be sincere. He turned and headed upstairs. "I'm gonna grab that shower. Oh, and I ate, so don't look for me at dinner."

Moira turned to Tommy with an accusatory look. Like this was his fault?

"Hey, I told you! See? He's fine!"

"Don't you let him run off like that again." Moira gave him a stern glare. "If he needs... _that_ , you make sure he meets some decent women. Or at least use a reputable escort service!"

Now Tommy's cheeks heated. Why did people assume he was some sort of pimp? "I-I will, Auntie Mo. I promise!"

He escaped.

== _X_ ==


	5. Return to Life

**Return to Life**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: no  
Violence: no  
Nudity: no  
Sex: no  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

There's a cliffhanger. And I don't know when I'll be back to this story. But you know what happens anyway. More or less...

* * *

 **Return to Life**

==#==

"Hurry, up, Ollie. The judge doesn't like it when you're fashionably late."

"I know, Speedy. I've been to court before."

Tommy walked in on the siblings. "That he has." He eyed Oliver, who was barely half dressed. "Auntie Mo sent me to see what's the hold up."

"Ollie keeps fighting with his suit," Thea griped.

"I don't remember them being this tight." Oliver made a wreck of his tie, then grimaced and tore out the knot. "It's been two years since I've done this, you have to expect me to be a bit rusty."

Tommy shot a worried look at Thea, but she just went and took the tie from Oliver. She looped it over her neck to do a proper Windsor knot. "Five years," she said gently. "It was five years, Ollie."

Oliver didn't reply. He seemed mesmerized by his reflection in the mirror. He didn't blink.

"So, Oliver," Tommy said, trying to bring him out of the Twilight Zone. "Are you ready to come back from the dead?"

He didn't answer.

Thea took off the loose tie to hand it back to her brother, but Tommy intercepted it. He didn't want her to get hurt if Oliver lashed out unexpectedly.

"Come on, man. It's time to go." Tommy hesitantly nudged Oliver's arm. "Here."

Oliver startled and finally blinked. Tommy pressed the tie into his hands. This seemed to capture his attention and ground him in the here and now. "Uh, thanks."

"Sure. Now come on. If the judge gets ticked off, he might just make you stay dead."

Tommy turned to head out, not noticing Oliver's shudder.

==#==

Inside the courthouse, they met the Queen family lawyer in a small consultation room. "Everything is in order, Mr. Queen." She set the written statement before him. "Sign here."

Oliver gripped the pen barrel in his fist, the little brass point facing up. He stared at it a moment, his face unreadable.

"Oliver," Moira prompted in a murmur. "Sign your name."

He took the pen out of his grip with his other hand, then tried to position it, awkwardly. He was like an invalid or Alzheimer's patient. He finally got it gripped tightly, facing the right way, and started writing in shaky, large loops.

Oliver put the pen down, not raising his eyes. There was an awkward silence as no one said anything about his childlike writing skills.

The lawyer prompted Tommy to also sign, as witness. He almost felt bad, like a flashy showoff. It really hit home, then, that Oliver had been a castaway for five whole years. Tommy couldn't imagine the scope of it, the deprivation he'd suffered. How much had he forgotten? He would need time to recover, to acclimate. Tommy wanted to be there to help him.

Oliver was a bundle of nerves going into the crowded courtroom, full of reporters, bloggers, gawkers. Pre-island Oliver would have sailed past them as if they didn't exist, used to the attention of the paparazzis. Now he all but huddled between Tommy and Thea, gripping Tommy's arm so tightly, that he feared for his circulation.

"It's gonna be fine," Tommy whispered as he guided Oliver to his chair.

Oliver sat down, alternately shivering and tensing into rock-hard stillness. He didn't speak during the hearing. The lawyer read a prepared statement, mostly for the benefit of the press.

"Your Honor, we move to vitiate the death-in-absentia filed after Oliver's disappearance at sea aboard the Queen's Gambit, five years ago. Unfortunately, we will not be requesting that the declaration of death filed for the petitioner's father, Robert Queen, be rescinded. The Queen family is only entitled to one miracle, I'm afraid."

Tears leaked from Oliver's eyes.

As the court was dismissed, Tommy got up and took Moira by the elbow. "Head off the press; I'll get Oliver out of here." She nodded gratefully, then stepped in front of the horde, promising them a press conference out in the hall in five minutes.

Tommy got Oliver out the back way, led him to a quiet hallway to catch his breath, get ahold of himself. After a few minutes, Oliver seemed steadier, but Tommy didn't want to subject him to a press conference. They slipped out a side door, then practically snuck around the side of the building. The cars were only a few yards away.

==#==

"Tommy, can I go with you?"

"Sure, pal. Anything for my best friend." Tommy glanced in the direction of the Queen limo. "No ditching me this time, 'k?" he asked, lowering his voice. "Your mom _will_ kill me."

Oliver frowned. "No, I just want to go see Laurel, then go home." He got in the car.

Tommy followed. "The whole town is celebrating the fact that you're alive, and you want to go see the one person who wishes you were dead?"

He regretted the words instantly, seeing Oliver's face crumple. "Really?" his friend asked in a timorous voice.

"No, no. Not literally." They navigated out of the parking lot. "But you're sure you want to do this?"

"Yeah," Oliver said, not convincingly. Then he added, "There's something I need to tell her."

"Okay, man; it's your funeral. Again."

Tommy expected another crack about picking up chicks, but Oliver remained silent. He was not the same person as yesterday. He sat slouched in his seat, but more hunched, with his shoulders pulled in, not relaxed.

Tommy turned on the radio, turned it down quickly as Oliver nearly leapt out the window. They drove in silence through downtown to the north end of the Glades.

The streets were narrow in this area. Tommy parked illegally in a side alley, then they got out and walked around to the front of the old brownstone office building.

"What's this?" Oliver asked.

"This is where Laurel works, CNRI. It stands for Community... 'of a bunch of lawyers helping people' or something." Tommy shrugged. "Wait here."

He went inside, wondering how he was going to convince Laurel to come talk to Oliver. A ruse seemed a good bet - if he wanted Laurel to kick him in the nuts. So, the truth it was.

Tommy hovered near Laurel's desk while he waited for her to finish some business with her colleagues. His curious glance scanned the controlled chaos of her workspace and couldn't help but notice a file on Adam Hunt. A corporate sleazebag. He'd been in the news lately, accused of fraud and theft of a few million dollars. It looked like Laurel was spearheading the case against him.

"Are you sure you want to go up against Adam Hunt?" he asked when she came over. "Some bad accidents seem to befall people investigating him."

She quirked a brow. "It's my job, Tommy. It's what I'm trained for. And why are you here? Besides to spy on my work?"

"I'm here to ask you kind of a favor..." He drew her over to a quiet corner of the room. "Look," he said, "Oliver's here. Could you come see him?"

Her expression darkened. "What is he doing here?"

"He just wants to tell you something."

"He couldn't text?" Laurel scoffed.

"Look, I know you don't want to see him. But I think you should at least go and hear him out. Five minutes."

"Tell him to email me," she growled and turned away. "I'm busy."

"Laurel." He touched her arm. "Please. Oliver... is in pretty bad shape. He's... suffered a lot."

"And I'm supposed to be sympathetic?"

"No, not at all." He edged around to face her again, lowered the volume of the conversation. "Just see him. Hear what he has to say. You don't have to change your mind about him or anything."

For a moment, he thought she was going to refuse, which would have been a great relief. He was loyal to his best friend, and had done his duty in trying to arrange this meeting. But secretly, he was afraid that if Laurel and Oliver talked... the spark between them might reignite.

Tommy had developed feelings for Laurel. Traitorous feelings that had been allowed to bloom with the death of Oliver. And now? They were even more traitorous.

But Laurel sighed in exasperation and consented to being dragged outside.

== _#_ ==

Oliver paced back and forth, his head down, not seeing the sidewalk under his feet.

 _'I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I love you, Laurel. You were the light that helped me survive the darkness.'_

 _'I forgive you, Oliver. I've wanted so much for a chance to start over.'_

He shook himself, bit the inside of his lip. _Focus!_ He was here. This was real. Not a dream. Fear welled up in his belly. It was too real. His last chance for absolution.

He stopped and grabbed for his shirt pocket, pulled out the wrinkled and worn photograph that had been his tenuous lifeline.

"You not look at picture," Yao Fei admonished him across from the fire. "You not think of home. You stare at picture of girl all day, you die."

"Shut up," Oliver told him harshly.

Yao Fei frowned to himself.

"You're not here," Oliver explained. " _I'm_ not here. You're-" Visions flooded his mind, of Yao Fei, hair combed and tied back, beard trimmed, head high, shoulders back, proud in his uniform. Then a red hole in the center of his forehead, his eyes showing a brief flicker of shock, then, nothing.

Shots, screams, smoke, blood.

Oliver bit down on his lip, hard. _I'm home; I'm here. I'm home. That is what's real. Focus!_

The photograph became clear again, the city street out of focus behind it. The smell of car exhaust, concrete-

"Ollie."

Her voice. It cut through him, more real, more alive than he'd ever heard it before. He started shaking. Tried to stop. He fumbled the photo towards his shirt pocket, but it wouldn't go in. He tried his back pocket as he turned, a bigger target. "Laurel," he croaked.

She was there, in the sun, the light of day, her hair so soft, her skin so smooth. Well, except the angry creases between her eyes. "Tommy said you wanted to tell me something," she prompted.

 _It's too real! What if you fail?_ "I'm sorry," he blurted. "I'm so sorry, and I know you're angry, and I know you hate me, and I was so stupid, but I-" _need you-_ "And you-" _you were the only thing that kept me alive-_ "I... I'm sorry. I... I hope... Could you...? Would you... ever forgive me?" He held his breath.

Laurel stared at him. Her eyes roamed his face, now hardened by weather and deprivation, glanced up and down his frame, his posture so stiff as he fought to keep from shaking.

"Oliver..." She bit her lip, hesitated. He prayed for her to go on, feared that she would. "Oliver, you were the love of my life. I was... When I heard you had died at sea, I was crushed. I was heartbroken."

Her eyes narrowed. She stepped closer, voice hardening. "Then two seconds later, I found out that my sister was dead along with you. While I was some stupid naive little girl, kissing you goodbye on that dock, you were planning to run off and screw my sister on your little sex cruise!

"I was hurt, I was furious! But I couldn't even wish you both dead, because you _were!_ I couldn't mourn because I was so angry. At both of you! And I couldn't be angry, because you were dead."

Oliver bowed his head, let the onslaught wash over him.

"You tore my family apart - me, my mother, my father - we lost Sara and we somehow lost each other." She stepped even closer, and Oliver tensed for a blow. "I'm sure whatever hardships you suffered all alone on that island were more than enough penance for you. But now you're back. Your family gets to rejoice. But mine is still destroyed.

"I can't hate you anymore, because I pity you. But I can't..." She bit off her words. "I don't want anything to do with you anymore." She turned and stalked off. She paused to throw a glare at Tommy. "How did you think that was going to go?"

Tommy edged away, let her pass. He went over to where Oliver was standing, still hunched as if expecting an attack. "Come on, buddy." Tommy gave him a supportive shoulder slap. "Shake it off."

Oliver reacted violently, tensing even further, staggering back, tremors rocking his body. He started whimpering in fear or pain or both.

"Hey, hey, easy," Tommy said, holding out his arms, wondering if he would have to catch Oliver if he fell. "It's okay! You're home; you're safe... Oliver, snap out of it!"

Laurel turned at the top of the steps, gaped at the spectacle, while others on the sidewalk moved away. "Is he all right?" she asked, but Tommy didn't hear her. His attention was on Oliver.

Oliver jumped back, went into a crouch. "Wh-Wh-What's happening?"

"It's okay," Tommy said again. "We're downtown. You're home. It's okay, you're safe."

"Does he need an ambulance?" Laurel asked, leaning over the rail.

"No," Tommy said quickly. "I don't think so. Bud? You okay now?"

Gasping for breath, Oliver straightened, got his bearings. "Yeah... Yeah. I-I'm all right." His eyes darted up to Laurel, held for one long moment... then dropped. "Let's go."

Tommy put a tentative hand on Oliver's arm. "Okay. Come on. I'll take you home."

Oliver followed docilely. Tommy tried to think of something encouraging to say, but nothing was forthcoming. They turned down the alley, where a van had pulled in behind Tommy's car. "Seriously?" he griped. "Man, they blocked us in."

He craned his neck as they passed, to see if the driver was in the van, but it appeared empty. He cursed under breath. There was nothing to do but get into the car and honk the horn - and wait.

Oliver stumbled between the van and the car, then crumpled to the pavement.

"Oliver!" Tommy turned to check on his friend, and that's when he saw the man in the mask. The man with the gun, pointed right at him. "No no no no! Don't ! We ha-"

The gun barked. Tommy felt a sting.

Then the world spun away into blackness.

== _X_ ==


	6. From the Shadows

**From the Shadows**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: a bit  
Violence: mentioned  
Nudity: none  
Sex: none  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

Not everything is spelled out in this story. Some stuff you need to figure out on your own. Just don't be too sure of yourself...

* * *

 **From the Shadows**

==#==

Tommy sat in an interview room down at the precinct. His head was killing him. He thought he'd catch a break with Laurel's father handling the interview. That was dumb - Laurel's father hated him. At least it was slightly less than he hated Oliver, which is why he wasn't allowed to do that interview.

"So there were three men," Lance stated coldly, consulting his notes.

"Yes."

"-Men in masks."

"Yes."

"They tranq-darted you and Queen."

"Yes."

"Hm. Fancy."

Tommy rubbed his head. If he was going to have a hangover this bad, he damn well wanted a fun party beforehand.

"They took you to a warehouse, where you saw some guy beat them up."

"As far as I can tell. It was just... shadows and noise. I was still pretty out of it."

"Then what happened?"

"I saw this guy in a hood."

"No mask?"

"No."

"So what did he look like?" Lance leaned back, pencil poised.

"I didn't see him clearly. It was dark. He had a hood on."

"White guy, black guy, Hispanic, Eastern?"

"I don't know."

"This guy talked to you, cut you loose, but you didn't see _anything?_ "

"I saw a shadow. With a hood. What do you want me to do, make shit up?"

Lance glowered at him with an even more sour look.

"Sorry," Tommy apologized before he could help himself.

"And where was Queen during all this?"

"Lying on the floor next to me."

Lance made a note in his little book. "He didn't see this mysterious hood guy?"

"No. He was out cold. When I was awake enough to get up, he was still unconscious. That's when I called the police, then I tried to wake him up. He's... had a hard time of it." He was pretty sure Lance didn't care.

"Can you think of any reason anyone would want to abduct you and Queen?"

"Money?"

"Is there anyone you know who has a grudge against you?"

 _You_ , Tommy thought. "No one comes to mind."

"Is there anyone you know who would want to protect you, save you from a kidnapping?"

Tommy thought about that. "No."

"How did this hood guy know where you were and that you needed help?"

"No idea. When you find him, you can ask him."

Lance snorted. And that was the end of the interminable interview.

== _#_ ==

Oliver didn't like the police station, the noise of it, the smell, the colour. It instilled fear in him and he didn't know why. He squeezed his hands between his thighs and tried to still his shaking body.

Detective Hilton was asking him what he remembered about the abduction, which was precious little. He had talked to Laurel. Had that happened? He was pretty sure that had happened. He sucked a breath to focus.

And then? Nothing... blackness. Then... waking up.

"Mr. Queen, did you see the men who abducted you?"

"No." A shiver escaped his control. There had been some crumpled forms on the floor...

"Did you see who rescued you?"

Oliver shook his head.

"Did you see a man, possibly wearing a hoodie, leaving the premises?"

Again, in bewilderment, he shook his head. "I only saw Tommy. After it was all over."

The detective nodded and jotted down a note. "How did he seem?"

"Um... shaken up."

"Did you notice if he was still suffering from the effects of the sedative? Groggy?"

 _"Oliver... Oliver? Wake up, buddy. Don't freak out, okay? We're all right."_

 _Dim, swimming vision. Tommy's face came into focus, partly shadowed, drawn in concern. "Whu...?"_

 _"It's okay, buddy. I called the cops. They'll be here soon."_

 _Oliver sat up. The darkness receded slowly around him. He had no idea where they were or how they had gotten there._

"I don't... I'm not sure?" he told the detective. I'm sorry. I'm sure Tommy knows more."

== _#_ ==

"So," Lance asked his partner. "You think either of them is good for this?"

Hilton mulled it over. "I don't know. You don't believe this story about some 'hood guy'?"

"I think the truth is pretty straightforward. Now, what's more likely? Some mysterious, anonymous, unidentifiable third party just happened to coincidentally show up and save those two? Or, one of them did it and is blowing some kind of smokescreen?"

Hilton had to admit, their story was thin. "But they aren't special forces types. Just spoiled trust fund brats."

"Queen's been living rough, toughening up." Lance narrowed his eyes. "And check into Merlyn's history, see if you don't find some kind of martial arts 'self defense' training." He shook his head. "Guys that rich with no job, no responsibilities... they get into all kinds of nonsense when they get bored."

== _#_ ==

Tommy collected Oliver and they left the precinct. He pulled out his phone to call a cab when a silver limousine rolled to the curb. Malcolm Merlyn go out of the back seat.

"Dad? What are you doing here?"

"I came to see if you were all right, and to take you and Oliver home." He ushered them into the limo, sat across from them. "How are you feeling? You're not hurt, are you?"

"No," said Tommy. "I'm just woozy."

"Thank God. Oliver?" Malcolm asked, looking at the young man with concern.

Oliver was hunched in his seat, curled as far in the corner as he could get.

"Buddy?" Tommy asked softly. "It's safe. You okay?"

"Y-Yeah." Oliver's gaze was a little vague, but at least he was responding. He wrapped his arms across his chest, crossed one leg over the other. "'m cold." He actually shivered.

"We can turn the heat up," Malcolm said, reaching for the controls, while Tommy reassured Oliver that he was home and indeed safe now. He was worried Oliver would go into one of his fits, but he seemed to settle down. One arm curled up around his head and ran through his bristling hair.

"He's not used to air conditioning," Tommy offered as an excuse.

"I know he has post-traumatic stress, Tommy. There's no need to try to hide it from me."

Tommy nodded. Merlyns and Queens were family, after all.

"How are you coping?" Malcolm asked.

"Me?"

"You were just kidnapped," Malcolm pointed out. "Who knows what could have happened to you?"

"I guess I'm still in shock."

"I'm still not clear - how did you get away?"

So Tommy trotted out the 'Hood Guy Story' again. His father looked baffled at the end. "I don't know," Tommy answered all his unasked questions. "Like I told the police - if you find him, you can ask him."

"Perhaps we can offer a reward to your mysterious savior. Draw him out."

"Him and a hundred other loonies."

Malcolm chuckled. "You're right."

They rode quietly on to Queen Mansion. Walter and Moira were there to greet them.

"The police say the identities of those men were scrubbed," Walter reported. "They were clearly professionals."

"Thank goodness," said Moira. The others looked at her. "Professional kidnappers - as distasteful as they are - are at least very good at making sure their hostages remain unharmed."

"So this was planned," Malcolm surmised. "A professional kidnapping, probably for very big stakes."

"Oliver has been in the news," Walter said. "I'm afraid he looks like an easy target." He turned to Oliver. "We've arranged for your protection."

Oliver ignored him.

Walter put on a very British stiff upper lip. Moira lightly touched his arm in solidarity. "There's someone I want you to meet." She drew Oliver to the far door. "Mr. Diggle?"

A tall man stepped through the doorway, in a respectable suit, of broad features and dark skin, his hair shorn to a mere shadow on his scalp.

"Oliver, this is Mr. Diggle. He's your new bodyguard."

Mr. Diggle nodded politely. "Pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Mom, I..." Oliver backed away. "I don't need a babysitter. -No offense."

Mr. Diggle only shrugged impassively.

"Considering everything that's happened, I think it's best for you to have someone keeping an eye on you. Tommy can't always take you everywhere. And you seem to feel the need to ditch him so often."

"But I don't want someone watching me all the time." Oliver wrung his hands. "Mom, please."

"Honey, just try it for a few days. Bodyguards can be very unobtrusive, and Mr. Diggle comes from a highly-respected firm." Moira touched his arm. "He will also be very discreet."

Oliver didn't seem to have an argument for that, so they turned back to their guests.

"This isn't going to interfere with the party, is it?" Tommy asked.

Moira sighed. "Don't you think such a big party is a bit premature?"

"But Auntie Mo, it's all set. We can't cancel now. E! magazine might even show up."

Before they could argue the matter further, Malcolm stepped in. "Well, I need to return to the office. Tommy, do you need a ride home?"

"Naah, I'll stay a while longer. Oliver can drive me home."

"But I... I can't drive," Oliver said.

Tommy grinned at him. "No worries! That's what your guy is for." At Oliver's blank look, he added, "You forgot already? Think of him as your new driver." Tommy pointed at Diggle, who quirked a brow at him. "Uh... no offense. I mean... I'm not just some stuck-up, over-privileged rich brat."

"The thought never crossed my mind, sir."

"Oooh, he's good!"

Malcolm told his son, "Be careful. And if you need anything, just call me."

"Sure, Dad."

Moira crossed the room, her argument with Tommy forgotten. "Let me walk you out, Malcolm."

==#==

"Did you do this?" Moira growled when they got outside.

"Why would I have our sons kidnapped?"

"Don't play games with me, Malcolm. This is exactly the kind of Machiavellian scheme you'd cook up to find out if Oliver knows anything about the Undertaking."

Malcolm sighed in defeat. "They weren't going to actually hurt him. I gave very specific-"

"Malcolm!" She stepped up and got right in his face. "Oliver is suffering from post-traumatic stress! He's in a very delicate condition; anything can set him off, even the most innocuous touch, let alone the added trauma of being kidnapped and interrogated!" She cut him off before he could say anything. "You stay away from my son! If he gets so much as a paper cut, I will end you!"

She whirled away, angry, started marching towards the door, but Malcolm wasn't finished with her. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to a halt. Her eyes flared at him, but he was not intimidated. "There's still one little matter. I understand Oliver is in therapy."

Moira wrested her arm from his grip. "That's none of your business."

"Therapy involves a lot of talking - about past events, about secrets. Surely you can see how this could pose a danger to us."

"Oliver doesn't know anything," she insisted.

"You don't _know_ that," he countered. "Take him out of therapy, Moira."

"He _needs_ therapy, Malcolm!"

"I'll talk to him. I'll help him."

"Oh, you are _not_ 'helping' my son."

"Listen to reason. _Please._ We're so close. Even the slightest risk could jeopardize everything we've worked so hard for, everything we've done."

He'd hit a sore point with her. She looked away. Then she shook her head. "Stay out of this, Malcolm." She looked up at him. "I'll be the good soldier; I'll do whatever you need, but you stay away from my family. Do you understand me?"

Reluctantly, he nodded.

She returned to her home.

== _X_ ==


	7. The Return

**The Return**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: yes  
Violence: yes  
Nudity: no  
Sex: mentioned/implied  
Other: drug use, alcohol, racial slur

 _Author's Note:_

Warning: reading this fic may cause bouts of mental instability. Hopefully temporary... :X (I think it's working... I could have sworn I posted this chapter before...!)

* * *

 **The Return**

==#==

Tommy drove over to Queen Mansion to pick Oliver up for his 'Return from the Dead' party. Moira was still nervous about the whole idea, and Tommy had to admit that, deep down, he shared her concerns. What would Oliver do in a loud, crowded room? What if someone bumped into him? Or an overzealous admirer threw herself on him?

But he reassured Moira and went upstairs to check on the guest of honor. "You ready, buddy?"

Oliver turned to the door, a sly smile playing across his lips. "A world-famous Tommy Merlyn party? You have no idea how much I've missed those." Oh yeah. This was on-the-pull Oliver.

Tommy smiled back. Then he sobered a moment. "Listen, any time you feel uncomfortable or need a break, just say the word."

"I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Hopefully, you'll be more than fine." The friends shared a wolfish grin.

Downstairs, Moira fussed over them once more.

"Mom, I'm fine. Really."

"Well, keep Mr. Diggle close by."

"That might be a little awkward for some of the activities I have in mind."

Moira blushed. "I'm sure he can be very discreet." She glanced at the bodyguard.

"Yes, ma'am."

She turned back to her son. "Please, Oliver, promise me."

"Mom, don't worry. Digg's my guy!" He gave the man a cheesy smile, and Tommy almost laughed. The poor bastard.

The three men walked outside to the cars. Oliver said, "I'll ride in with you. You can follow us, right, Diggs?" He looked over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir."

"He 'sirs' so much." Oliver snickered. Then he called back, "Hey, so what's bodyguard policy on doing illegal stuff?"

Tommy interjected, "We're not doing anything illegal."

"No, no, just hypothetically."

The three grouped in between Tommy's Maserati and the Queen Towncar. Mr. Diggle eyed up the two young billionaires. He played it straight, "My job is to make sure you don't get hurt. Reporting your every move to the police - or to your mother - is not part of the job description."

Tommy was impressed. At first, he wondered if Auntie Mo had made a mistake with this guy, but then he realized she knew her son better than anyone. She probably didn't want to know.

Oliver grinned and said aside to Tommy, "He's good."

"I told you."

To Diggle, Oliver said, "It's a party, are you at least going to try to have a good time?"

"Not while on duty."

"Oh, come on! Not one drink?"

"No, sir."

"How about at least smiling? Looking like you're having a good time? I know! You can dance."

"I don't think so."

"One dance! I insist."

Tommy shoved playfully at his friend. "Come on, cut the poor guy a break and let's go."

"I want to see him bust a move," Oliver argued. "Don't you?"

"Get in the car." Tommy walked to the driver's side.

" _черномазый_ , they got rhythm, no?"

Diggle froze on his way to the Towncar. Tommy gawked at his friend. "Did you... just say something racist?" And in what the hell accent?

Oliver chuckled. "No." He got in the Maserati.

Tommy shot Diggle an apologetic look. The bodyguard continued on his way with such a stoic expression, that Tommy wondered if he actually trained with the Buckingham Palace guards.

"What's with you?" Tommy asked as they drove to the city.

"Nothing. I'm a little pumped for the party. Is that bad?"

"No, no, of course not." Tommy drove a minute then said, "You didn't take anything, did you?"

"Before the party?" Oliver laughed. "Yeah, my shrink gives me the good stuff."

Tommy frowned at him.

"Jesus, Tommy. Lighten up."

"Yeah, yeah. And take it easy on Diggle. Man's got like the suckiest job, babysitting you."

"You would change your tune if you got stuck with a bulldog like that hanging on your ass," Oliver griped. Then he looked over. "Why didn't your dad stick you with a bodyguard, too?"

"Dunno." Tommy frowned. He hadn't thought about it, really. He and his dad lived separate lives. "Maybe he doesn't care."

"Count your blessings," Oliver said, rather callously. He reached over and cranked the stereo, loud enough that the bass probably reverberated in the Towncar behind them, efficiently cutting off further conversation.

Tommy's mind retreated into his own thoughts. Moira's overbearing protectiveness, or Malcolm's cool aloofness - which did he prefer? An ideal middle ground, that's what he wished for.

But the world wasn't perfect.

==#==

The party was a resounding success. Literally, as Tommy hoped the beat was shaking windows in all the neighboring downtown office buildings. Oliver disappeared shortly after being introduced to 'the chick that looks like Bella from _Twilight_.' Tommy heard that Laurel was present somewhere, but he avoided her in order to attend to his duties. Not because Oliver seeing them together would blow his closest friendship all to hell or anything.

It was some time later when the two playboys met up again. Olive grinned, and did he look a tad disheveled? Maybe he had lipstick on him, but not anywhere visible. Tommy grinned back. Both grabbed a drink at the bar.

"Where's your bodyguard?" Tommy half-shouted over the music.

"Guess he couldn't hold his liquor." Oliver's eyes gleamed, and Tommy wondered if he'd scored some chemical bliss at this party as well.

"Thought he couldn't do that on duty."

"Maybe someone slipped him something in his club soda."

"Oliver, you cad!"

Their laughter was interrupted by a wave of commotion coming from the doors. Suddenly the music cut off, then was replaced the the whine of feedback and a voice booming: "This is the police. Everyone remain calm. Do not try to leave the building."

"What the hell?" said Oliver.

Tommy scowled. It was Laurel's dad.

Lance shoved his way over to them. "Merlyn," he growled, then his voice managed to grow even darker. "Queen."

Tommy said, "What's going on, detective? We have a permit." And hopefully Oliver didn't have any of whatever he was taking on him.

"Someone was just murdered next door. The perpetrator fled towards this building. This...," his flint eyes raked the deflated party, "exercise in bad taste."

Tommy glanced at Oliver, thinking of Sara Lance, the detective's daughter. Laurel's sister. She'd died in the same accident that took Oliver's father and stranded Oliver. Oliver pressed his lips together and said nothing.

Lance continued while the uniformed cops spread out through the crowd. "It seems it was the same mystery hood guy that rescued you two last week."

"Really?" Tommy shared an incredulous look with Oliver.

"I still haven't seen that guy," the latter said. "But my bodyguard did go missing," he added.

How much trouble was Oliver going to prank that guy into? Maybe it was the bad boy in him, stirred up by his old partner in crime, or the drinks, but Tommy leapt up onto the bar. "Hey, everybody!" he yelled. "The cops are looking for a nutbar in a hood. One thousand dollars if you find him! -Oh! And five thousand if you are him, cuz I want to meet you!"

Almost immediately, someone yelled, "Yeah, I'm him!"

"No, I'm the hood guy!"

"I'm the butch hood _chick!_ "

Lance gave Tommy a death glare, and Tommy feared to get down from the bar. He just shrugged at the fuming detective.

Lance dragged both he and Oliver in for questioning.

Well, it wasn't a Tommy Merlyn party if it didn't end with the cops busting it up.

==#==

Lance was ready to chew iron and spit nails. Once again, those rich scumbag playboys were in the thick of multiple homicides, and played around like this was some kind of game. He dearly wanted to take a run at Oliver Queen, the first and foremost question on his mind being 'Why?' _Why did you tear apart my family and kill my baby girl?_ Which, of course, is why he wasn't allowed anywhere near Queen.

Merlyn was worse. He put on a carefree, innocent air, looking squeaky clean next to loud and raunchy Oliver Queen. But he as a predator, a tomcat always on the prowl, looking for an easy takedown. Another notch on his belt. Partying, doing drugs, drinking and driving - it's a wonder he hadn't killed anyone yet.

Or maybe he had.

It couldn't be a coincidence, proximity to the hood guy, twice. No, because in police work, there were no coincidences.

"Do you have a guest list for your 'party'?"

"No."

Lance glared at the tacit Merlyn scion.

"I may have jotted down a few names at the start, but soon as word of mouth got around..." He shrugged. "People just started asking for invites. Also, we had a lot of crashers."

"Didn't you need to tell the caterers how many people were going to be at the venue?"

"Nah, I just hired them for their largest gig. Figured the party would fill it out."

Privileged rich bastard. "Did you see any suspicious persons or activities while you were hosting this party?"

Merlyn pretended to think it over, clearly editing out all the drug transactions. "Nothing comes to mind."

Lance frowned. Who thought this interview would be at all productive? He started to ask another question, then glanced up as several shadows passed by the interview room door. Something was up... But he dragged his attention back to the work at hand.

"Mr. Merlyn, do you have any martial arts training?"

"Huh? No." He frowned. "Not really."

"'Not really'? So, yes then."

"Look, my dad had some instructor teach me stuff when I was a kid. I never took to it." Merlyn shrugged. "That was ages ago. And what does this have to do with-"

"Can you account for your whereabouts the entire evening?"

Merlyn scoffed. "Yeah. About a thousand people saw me at the party."

"And several of those people reported seeing you leave the venue for some time. Possibly with an underage girl. Would you care to explain that?"

That wiped the smug-ass smile off Merlyn's face. "There was... someone underage who crashed the party. I escorted her out."

"Personally."

"Yah."

"Does this someone have a name?"

"No," Merlyn said, too quickly.

"A description?"

"Too young."

"Just the way you like 'em, ain't it?"

Merlyn's eyes flared. "Those... patently false charges have nothing to do with this case."

"Well, it seems your only alibi is this mysterious girl."

"Alibi? You don't seriously think that _I'm_ this hood guy?"

"Are you?"

"Oh my God. No!"

Lance shrugged. "Well, like I said, we can't corroborate your alibi without this mystery girl. Whom we can't find without a name or even a description - unless she turns up beaten and raped in an alley outside your party."

"This is ludicrous!" Merlyn spat. "No, you know what? This? This is harassment! One call to my father," he growled, getting riled, "and you are off this case, and on desk duty for a year!"

Lance felt his blood boil, but ground his teeth against a retort. It had been unprofessional of him, but guys like Merlyn made him sick.

"This interview is over." Merlyn kicked back his chair and stood.

"You're free to leave," Lance allowed.

They needed more to go on. It would take the CSI's a week or more to process the crime scene and the neighboring party scene. Evidence would come to light. The pieces would fall together.

Hopefully before more people were killed.

==#==

Oliver Queen remained silent on the ride to the police station. Detective Hilton met the squad car in the parking lot, opened the back door to escort him inside. "Mr. Queen."

He didn't move.

"Mr. Queen," Hilton tried, a bit louder.

Had he fallen asleep? He wasn't drunk enough to have passed out. Hilton leaned down. No, Queen was sitting upright, hands on his knees, eyes wide open. "Mister... Mr. Queen?" For a heart-stopping moment, Hilton thought maybe he'd died.

Malone, the uniform who'd driven Queen over, came around. "is something wrong, detective?"

"Call inside for a psych eval." Being alone on an island for five years would make anyone snap. But he'd seemed fine at the party. Hilton leaned closer. "Mr. Queen?" He waved a hand in front of Queen's glassy eyes.

"Mr. Queee-een...," a voice growled from the dark. "Mr. Queen, wakey-wakey!" A pronged object shoved into his chest, then with a snap and sizzle, pain exploded in blue-white light.

Oliver screamed.

Hilton jumped back. "Get me some back up out here! Where's that shrink?"

"Now, Mr. Queen," said Fyers' refined voice. "You will tell me what you know."

A face appeared, half black, half white, all expressionless save for the glitter of malice in its eyes. The blade in its hand gleamed, even as it went into Oliver's stomach.

A scream of agony ripped from Oliver's throat.

"Hold him down!"

"Don't hurt him!"

Hilton didn't know what else to do, so he got Queen's hands cuffed behind him.

"Starling General's sending a specialist with an ambulance," Malone reported.

A gruff voice, familiar yet cold and alien growled inches from Oliver's face. "Mr. Queen..." A black-gloved fist smashed across his face. "Who are you working for?"

"Nobody! I told you, I was shipwrecked on this isl-"

"The beach is over seven klicks from here! Across rough terrain." Another punch across the face. "Who sent you?"

Oliver reeled. "Some old Chinese guy."

"What was his name?"

"I dunno! He-He rescued me, gave me shelter, but he barely said two words to me the whole time!"

"What did he look like?"

"Some crazy old Chinese guy who's been living in a cave!" Oliver flinched, expecting another blow. Then his memory flashed on another scene. "Th-That guy, Fyers said his name was Yao Fei?"

"So... you are from Fyers' camp." The man rose and moved to a duffel bag. He took out a mask, half black, half white.

A jolt of fear shot through Oliver. "You! You're that sick psycho that tortured me!" He jerked helplessly against the bonds on his wrists.

Slade drew the mask over his head. "You have not yet begun to suffer." His blade was a slick, oily black. Still, it gleamed, thirsty for blood.

" _No!_ " Oliver thrashed against the restraints.

"Get him sedated!" Dr. Saunders snapped, trying to hold the man down.

The EMT jabbed Mr. Queen in the arm, forced the plunger as fast as it would go. It still took almost two minutes for the patient to calm and go into a docile state.

==#==

Lance went out into the chaos of milling personnel in the parking lot in time to see the ambulance pull out. He found Hilton. "What the hell happened?"

"Queen freaked out."

Lance snorted. "Could he be faking?"

"No way. The man was screaming like the demons of Hell were ripping him apart." Hilton shook his head. "Quentin, I have to say, I don't think he's capable of being the Hood."

"He's strong enough," Lance argued. "Being on that island toughened him up. Honed his killer instinct."

"I don't think so."

"He could have learned to use a bow and arrow, and gotten very good at it."

"Where would he get a bow and arrow? Or even the tools to make one?" Hilton shook his head again. "He was all alone, eating bugs and shit. He's a basket case."

"Well, that still leaves -"

Merlyn. "Where's Oliver?" The billionaire playboy strode over to the two detectives.

Hilton said, "He's been taken to Starling General."

"What the hell did you do to him?"

"I assure you, Mr. Merlyn-"

"No! You know what?" He grabbed his cell phone out of his pocket. "Forget my dad busting you for harassment. Just wait until Moira Queen finds out you sent her son to the hospital!"

==#==

Dr. Saunders entered the private room where Oliver Queen had been set up, followed by an orderly. There was already one there, making sure Mr. Queen was properly sedated and restrained. "Get him ready for transport," the doctor ordered.

"But... we just got him in here."

"He needs to be transferred to a private facility immediately."

"What about the forms? Who signed-?"

"He's a danger to himself and society. Just prep him and leave the details to me." Dr. Saunders went into the hall, paced in impatience.

A whirlwind came around the corner. Nurse Diaz was trying - in vain - to stop Moira Queen.

"What is going on here? I demand to see my son."

"Mr. Queen is unharmed," Dr. Saunders quickly reassured her. "But he needs rest - he can't be disturbed. If you'll just follow me to the waiting room, we can discuss-"

"You're not his physician," Mrs. Queen snapped. "Where is Dr. Lamb? Why wasn't he called in?"

"Dr. Lamb is not on duty. Oliver suffered an episode at the police precinct. He needs care."

"Dr. Arita is his mental health professional."

"I'm sure she was contacted, but the emergency-"

"She _will_ be contacted, and I'll be taking my son home now." She moved around him.

Dr. Saunders shifted into her path, blocking her. "Mr. Queen is in a delicate condition. He could suffer permanent mental damage if he is moved or disturbed."

It worked; that stopped her in her tracks. Fear and doubt clouded her expression.

Then the door opened and one of the orderlies reported, "The patient is ready for transfer, doctor."

Moira Queen's eyes flared. "To where?"

Sweat beaded on Saunders' brow. "He needs to be in a supervised mental care facility."

Her eyes grew even icier. "Without my authority? Doctor, you overstep your bounds!"

"In my professional opinion-"

"Since he is ready to transport, then by all means, let's go. I can take him home."

"He's under sedation," Saunders insisted. "He needs medical supervision. Really, Mrs. Queen, this is not time for emotional histrionics. Let us take care of your son."

"I'll get a nurse to look after him, and arrange a private ambulance to take him home. _You_ ," she emphasized, stepping closer, "are _not_ his physician, nor his specialist. In fact, I think I made it perfectly clear that I didn't want you treating my son, and if not, then an official reprimand from the Board of Superintendents ought to do!"

Defeated, he backed off. Damn obscenely rich people! She started organizing everything. Saunders escaped down a side hall and darted into a housekeeping closet. He pulled out his phone and dialled, his thumb shakily punching the numbers. "Hello? This is Dr. Saunders." He nervously licked his lips. "I'm sorry; I don't have him."

The voice on the other end of the line was cold, refined. " _Doctor, you assured me you could arrange this._ "

"I-I did. I could. But... his mother came and took him."

" _I see._ "

He swallowed. "I tried, but there was nothing I could do. I'm sorry."

" _I understand._ "

The phone went dead. Saunders mopped his brow with his sleeve.

==#==

"Hey... wake up," came the soothing feminine voice.

Blearily, Oliver pried his eyes open. Light flowed in, painfully at first. But he needed to see. The light shattered into a halo around the woman leaning over him. "Laurel?" he croaked. "Wh...? What-? Where-?" His throat as too dry. He struggled to sit up.

"Easy. You've been sick." Gently, she pushed him back. "You're still weak. Rest."

A gruff voice rasped, "How is he?"

"His fever's broken. He should be all right now."

Oliver blinked, and the view began to come into focus. The dark roof, torn in half against a pale, colourless sky. Steel, cargo netting, crates...

He was back on Lian Yu.

Tears spilled from his eyes.

== _X_ ==


	8. Rescue

**Rescue**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: I don't think so  
Violence: mentioned  
Nudity: no  
Sex: none  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

Entitled "Laurel's Bad Day," unless I can actually think up something...! I hope this episode is recognizable, after I cut it down so much.

* * *

 **Rescue  
**

==#==

Instead of calling Joanna, like she told her father she would, Laurel dialled Tommy's number and asked him to take her to his place. She sleepwalked through her wrecked apartment to throw some clothes and toiletries into a bag.

Tommy arrived in no time. "Are you all right?" he asked as she got in the car. "I heard the news. I was already on my way to check on you."

"I'm fine," she managed. She was; the EMT that checked her out said so. Some bruises and scrapes, one cut, no stitches, no concussion. She managed to be fine, until they got into Tommy's apartment. The adrenaline wore off, and chills gripped her. She started shaking.

"Hey, hey," Tommy said, noticing. "Do you need-"

She fell into his arms, sobbing.

"Hey, hey; shh, shh." He folded her tightly against his chest. "It's okay. Let it all out."

Somehow, he got them to the couch, and her wrapped up in his jacket. When the wave of emotion subsided, he got her a stiff drink - just a small one on her empty stomach. Then he microwaved some leftovers and got some hot food into her as he rejoined her on the couch.

"You want to talk about it now?" he asked.

She nodded, chewing. "You know that guy... Victor Nocenti? He was killed on the docks a few weeks ago." She paused to swallow, and Tommy nodded. "Emily Nocenti, his daughter, was suing Martin Somers." The dockmaster had ordered Victor silenced, there was no doubt about that. What was lacking was solid proof for a court of law. Emily's only option was blood money from a civil suit.

"Right. I warned you to be careful about him." He rubbed her arm.

"Everybody did. I even warned Emily, but she was determined to see justice done. No matter the danger." Laurel gulped a breath, then reached for her wine glass. "They pounded on my door, then just busted in; two - three guys, I'm not sure. I ran to get my gun... There was shooting... I ran into the bedroom to call 911."

She emptied her glass while Tommy watched in concern. He didn't move to refill it, and she set it on the table.

"The window shattered and some woman with white hair attacked me, knocked me down." That's who'd cut her, sliced her arm with a wicked blade. Laurel clutched at the bandage in memory. "I think she was about to kill me; I was stunned, I couldn't get up..." She gulped, felt that chill returning to her limbs.

Tommy hugged her tighter to him, making the leather of his jacket creak.

"Then someone else was there. They were fighting. He chased her off."

"Someone, who?"

"I don't know. He came in through the window after her. I think... I think it was that same guy you saw. With the hood."

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"No." She shook her head. "It was all a blur."

Tommy frowned. "I wonder who he is."

"And how he knows when we're in danger." Was this guy watching them? Spying on her and Tommy?

"He must be some kind of guardian angel," Tommy said warmly, putting a less creepy spin on it. "I, for one, am glad he was there."

==#==

"I have to get back there," Oliver said, rising from his cot, pushing past Shado.

"Where?" she asked him.

"Home!" He paced back and forth, because he didn't know which way to go.

Exasperated, Slade said, "What do you think we've been trying to do?"

Oliver rounded on him. "This isn't real. I was _there_."

"I give up." Slade rolled his eyes at Shado. "You talk sense to him."

"Oliver, you've been delirious for nearly a week."

"No, that was real. This is the dream." He had to believe that. But how to wake up?

Shado continued speaking to him calmly. "I know you wish that were so."

"Prove to me this is not a dream," he demanded.

Shado sighed. Suddenly, Slade smacked him upside the head.

"Ow!"

"Was that real enough? Want me to pinch you, Alice?"

Oliver rubbed his head. "But I _remember_. I remember everything - leaving this island, getting home. I talked to Laurel, she hates me."

"If you remember everything," Slade challenged, "then how did we get off this damned island?"

"There was a boat..." Oliver's brow creased. The memory tried to elude him.

 _A Chinese fishing boat. Oliver raced over the rough terrain, scraping his hands as he scrabbled over rock outcroppings._

He looked up at Slade and Shado's expectant faces. They hadn't been there. Why hadn't they been there? They had to have been there.

"There was a ship," he insisted. "It... they attacked. W-We fought... we got on board. There was a big fight, the ship sank... and I woke up in Hong Kong."

"That doesn't sound at all like a dream," Slade said sarcastically.

"Was it a pirate ship?" Shado asked.

"No... some mad scientist-"

Slade kept it up. "Because pirates would just be crazy."

"-was looking for some miracle soldier drug on a sunken Japanese World War II sub."

"Okay," Shado admitted. "That's kind of unique." She looked at Slade, unwilling to take sides.

"Let me guess," the Australian said, "the sub was destroyed by Godzilla. Because this is really Monster Island. And we escape by building a big saddle to fly away on Mothra."

Oliver gritted his teeth. That was worse than his crack about Gilligan's Island! "I can prove it!" The other two frowned at him. "When they get here, they're looking for a hozen."

"A hozen?" Shadow asked, apparently surprised he knew what one was.

"It has coordinates written on it. It's in a cave with some old Japanese skeletons. I think I remember where it is! I'll take you there, you'll see."

"This sounds like a fool's errand," Slade grumbled. "Is there anything useful at this cave, like rations, medical kits, weapons?"

Oliver paced some more, wracking his brain. It had been so long ago. "I think there's a scanner, like an infrared scanner."

"Which is good for what, exactly?"

"We use it... we can use it as like a perimeter alarm."

Shado said to Slade, "If we're going to be attacked by a mad scientist, we'll need that."

"So you're going along with this?" He scowled.

"What would it hurt?" She turned and began sorting through her gear, organizing a travel pack. "It's better than sitting here all the time. Who knows? Maybe by exploring, we'll find a way off this island."

"We could hike out to the lagoon," Oliver said, getting more excited. "Where the Russian sub is."

Shado paused and looked over her shoulder at him. "I thought it was a Japanese sub?"

"Right. We can get it working again, and we can leave!"

"How are we supposed to get an old Japanese sub back in commission?" Slade asked.

"Anatoly can get it working." Oliver was sure of it!

"Who's Anatoly?"

Oliver blinked. Who _was_ Anatoly? "I... I don't know."

Dr. Arita leaned forward. "You don't know how you got those bruises?"

"No, I..." Oliver looked around. He was back in the psychiatrist's office! "I'm here! I'm home!"

"Yes, Oliver, you're home."

"How did I get here?"

"Your driver brought you," the doctor told him simply.

He slowed his breathing. He didn't want to knock himself loose from this time and place. Which was... "Wh-What day is it?" He looked around the office again, searching for a clock, a calendar. He looked at his clothes. "How long was I gone?"

"It's Thursday, October 18th. You only drifted off for a minute or so."

"No..." Oliver struggled to remember where he'd been, where he'd started. "No, I... I woke up on Lian Yu. They told me I had a fever."

"'They'?"

He licked his lips in hesitation. "The people on the island with me."

Dr. Arita took down some notes. "What people were there?"

Right, that didn't sound crazy at all. Imaginary people on a deserted island. "I... There were people there. I... I didn't tell anyone, because th-the people there t-tortured me." His breath caught in his throat.

The doctor's brow creased as she looked up in alarm. "What people were these?"

He felt his chest tightening. Scars pulling at his skin. "I don't want to talk about that." He put his head down; his voice grew small. "Bad things happened. I don't want to talk about that."

"Oliver..." The doctor leaned forward. "I know it's painful for you, and you just want to feel safe now that you're home. But now, when you _are_ safe, is when you _need_ to talk about the bad things. Now is when you can process what happened to you. And then you can be free of it."

"No... no, I don't wanna." Stubbornness overcame him. "I wanna go home. I want my mommy."

"All right," the doctor said slowly. "But I want to give you some sleeping pills. Hopefully, they will help you with your somnambulism and prevent you from hurting yourself again."

== _X_ ==


	9. The Shooting

**The Shooting**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: no  
Violence: some  
Nudity: no  
Sex: no  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

Sorry if you got a notice there was a new chapter, and there was no new chapter. I went and posted the next chapter, THEN saw I had notes that this stuff happened before that. OOPS! Sorry! Luckily, the in-between bits were already written. I just had to type them in. And the NEXT chapter is done, too!

Bloodsong's lousy title: "Diggle's Bad Day." :X

* * *

 **The Shooting**

==#==

Tommy was visiting the Queen Mansion. Oliver had been quiet the past few days, subdued. He didn't want to go out, so Tommy spent some time with him, vegging on the couch, watching TV. Thea came home from school and joined them.

Moira arrived a while later, and came in to greet them. Then she frowned at the television. "Do they have to keep talking about that awful man?"

Tommy looked to the screen, where a live newsbite was showing a group of people protesting the death penalty outside of Iron Heights prison.

"Yeah," said Thea, "they should just fry him already."

"Thea!" Moira frowned at her daughter.

"What? I'm just agreeing with you." Tommy couldn't tell if Thea was serious, or just being a brat towards her mother again.

Then Oliver frowned at the screen. "Who is this guy?"

"Peter Declan," his friend told him. "Supposedly killed his wife."

"Stabbed her like twenty times," Thea added, with exaggerated ennui. "In front of their kid, I think."

Oliver looked at Tommy. "You don't think so?"

He shrugged. "The evidence wasn't conclusive."

"What?" said Thea, leaning forward. "The dead body and the bloody knife with his fingerprints all over it?"

"It's all circumstantial. It was his kitchen knife, after all. Laurel says it isn't enough for the death penalty."

"Laurel told you this?" Oliver asked.

"We talked about it, yeah. It was on the news."

"You didn't mention it to me."

"Look, I know she bro- I mean, I know you two are not... liking each other. So, no, I don't talk about her to you, or vice versa." Tommy fidgeted. Oliver was looking at him like... like what? It was intense, and terribly uncomfortable.

Thea interrupted. "Look, it's your buddy."

Both men turned to the TV screen, where that sketch of 'the Hood Guy' was being shown yet again. The newscaster was going over his body count with a glint in his eye. Oliver froze up, his face going pale.

Tommy said, "He's not my buddy."

"Yeah, but you seen him kill people, right?" Thea prodded. "That makes you like the only eye witness."

"Thea, that's enough," Moira snapped. "Go get cleaned up and start your homework!"

"Yeah, yeah," the teen griped, as she rose and stomped out of the room. Moira huffed in exasperation and followed.

Tommy glanced at Oliver. "You okay there, buddy?"

"You saw him...?"

"Barely," Tommy admitted. "When we were kidnapped, remember? He saved us."

"I don't like him." Oliver shivered.

"Hey, there's nothing to be scared of." He reached a hand to Oliver, who flinched away.

"Don't touch me."

"Easy, man. I'm so-"

Oliver got up abruptly and left.

==#==

Diggle didnt expect to be shot at today. Despite the occasional spoiled rich playboy pranks and thinly-veiled derogatory remarks, the Queen assignment was basically a babysitting job. Most of the time, Oliver Queen was a meek mouse, jumping at the slightest noise, freaking out at the lightest touch. Diggle suspected the man formerly had a mean streak, and that his other playboy friend brought out the worst in him.

Today was more of the former. Diggle drove Mr. Queen downtown to meet his mother for lunch. They'd just crossed the street when a motorcycle roared up behind them. Mr. Queen startled, and Diggle moved to reassure him. As he did, he caught sight of the rider zooming past them, one arm out.

"Gun!" Diggle yelled, too late, as shots cracked out.

There were a few screams, Oliver's the loudest. He rabbited, but Diggle's eyes were on Moira Queen and the man next to her. He'd seen a bullet splinter a sapling right next to them, saw them both drop down to the pavement.

He ran over. "Call the medics!" he yelled, to break people out of their shock and panic. He had a phone, but his first concern was checking on Mrs. Queen.

She struggled to sit up. "I'm fine," she insisted, shakily pushing his soliciting hands away. "Where's Oliver? Go find Oliver!"

Oliver Queen was his charge... but Diggle couldn't just up and leave wounded people. He shifted over to Mrs. Queen's business associate, caught sight of a patch of crimson on his sleeve. He pulled the man's suit jacket open; he'd been hit, upper right abdomen.

Diggle pulled off his own jacket, balled it up and pressed it down on the entrance wound. The man cried out, but Diggle kept up the pressure. "Hang on, man. Help is on the way." Sirens wailed in the distance.

Moira Queen got to her knees. "You have to find my son!" she insisted. "Your job is to protect Oliver!"

Instead of wasting time arguing with her, he grabbed her hand and shoved it down on the makeshift bandage. If she wanted him to leave, she could very well stand in as a first responder. "Keep the pressure steady on there," he commanded. Then he stood and took off in the last direction he'd seen Oliver Queen bolt.

==#==

When he didn't find Oliver within ten minutes, he began to worry. He didn't think a panicked PTSD victim had the wherewithal to flee and hide with such proficiency. What if the potshots had just been a distraction to facilitate kidnapping Oliver again?

Diggle began to sweat, and really wished he had his squad here to help run a search grid. In the end, he had four police officers fanning out around the plaza. He circled outward, an three hours later found Oliver huddled between two dumpsters five blocks away.

"Mr. Queen?" He approached, a hand out.

Oliver shrank back, trying to wedge himself into the furthest corner. His eyes had that crazed wild look from one of his flashback episodes.

"It's all right." Diggle switched into his soothing mode. "It's okay; you're safe now. Come on out."

Queen lowered his brows, regarded him darkly. "I don't know you," he growled.

"Mr. Queen, it's John Diggle."

"How do you know my name?" he snapped. "Did Fyers send you?"

Diggle shook his head. "Oliver, your mother hired me to protect you."

"Mommy?" His entire demeanor instantly changed. Diggle found it more than a little freaky, but rolled with it.

"That's right, now come on out and I can take you to her." He extended his hand again, but Oliver shrank back.

"I'm not s'posed to go with strangers."

"All right." He backed up. He was no shrink, how was he supposed to deal with this?

In the end, Diggle waved over one of the police officers. The badge and uniform helped and, Diggle supposed bitterly, the fact he was a white guy probably did, too.

==#==

Mr. Queen settled more into his usual self on the ride to the hospital, but he had no idea what had happened. He freaked out a little - a normal-level freak out - when he saw his mother in the hospital bed. "Mom? Mom!" He rushed to her side.

"I'm all right; I'm okay," she reassured him, taking him in her arms. "I'm fine, I'm _not_ hurt."

Thea Queen got up from the corner chair and came to the other side of the bed. "Where were you?" she demanded of her brother.

"Thea," Mrs Queen protested.

The young woman didn't relent. "You ran off and left Mom bleeding in the street!"

Oliver stepped back, shell-shocked. "I-I... I didn't... I don't know."

Diggle said, "Ms. Queen, your brother suffered a traumatic shock, and doesn't remember anything about the incident."

This earned Oliver a reprieve from his sister, but Moira Queen shot Diggle a look indicating her mountain of disapproval for losing Oliver.

Some days, this job just sucked.

== _#_ ==

They tromped through the forest of Lian Yu. Oliver tried to remember the way to the Japanese cave from the fuselage. It wasn't on the other side of the island, was it? He could be turned around. No, he'd never been to the other side of the island.

Then he heard voices up ahead.

"...and you're sure?"

"Mom?" Oliver turned off the path, crested a short rise.

"Robert cannot be allowed to return," a cultured male voice said.

He caught sight of his mother, and behind that tree... Walter!

"And he will never know about my involvement?"

"You have my word, Moira."

They were plotting to kill his father! And get married! Oliver began to lunge forward, but was suddenly yanked back.

Slade dragged him to the path.

"Where were you going?" Shado scolded. "There's mines everywhere."

"I- Didn't you see...?" No, of course not. His mother and Walter couldn't be here on the island. He shook his head and pushed on.

"Are you sure you know where we're going, kid?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm-" Oliver stumbled.

Around the bend, just off to the side of the path. stood Laurel. She as deep in conversation with... her sister. "I don't want to see him ever again."

"I'll make sure of it," Sara said. "If the sea doesn't take him, I'll finish the job."

"Sara?" Oliver called.

This time, Shado grabbed his arm. "Oliver, snap out of it." She shot a worried glance at Slade. "He's getting worse. He must be sicker than we thought."

"No!" Oliver turned on her, ripped his arm out of her grasp. "I was _there!_ This is all a dream! I have to get back!" He looked around frantically. There had to be a... a door. A gateway? Something! A crazy idea entered his head, and he took off running through the forest.

"Oliver!"

"Don't do it, kid! What if you're wrong?"

 _What if you're wrong?_ The thought filled Oliver's mind with doubt as he was in midair, a split second before his foot touched own on - _there!_ \- A land mine! He landed on it, momentum carrying him forward; there was a deafening roar, a blinding flash.

Then nothing.

Silence.

Blackness.

== _X_ ==


	10. An Innocent Man

**An Innocent Man**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: maybe?  
Violence: yes  
Nudity: no  
Sex: implied assault  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

Finally! A little insight into... who the hell IS this guy?

* * *

 **An Innocent Man**

==#==

Laurel was about to set her phone in the charger when it buzzed in her hand. Startled, she didn't check the caller ID before answering. "Hello?"

" _Laurel Lance._ " The voice was obviously modulated, its tone artificially deep.

"Who is this?" she demanded.

" _My name is Hunter. I have reason to believe that Peter Declan is innocent._ "

"How did you get this number?"

" _You are a public defender, Ms. Lance._ "

That did nothing to explain how he got her private number. Had she given it to a client recently? Perhaps Emily Nocenti.

The voice continued. " _Camille Declan worked for a company owned by Jason Brodeur. Brodeur is powerful enough to have her murdered and her husband framed._ "

"But why would he? There's no evidence."

" _If I find evidence, I will need your help to clear Peter Declan's name._ "

"Why do you care so much about exonerating him?"

Silence.

Laurel frowned at the phone after a moment. "Hello?"

" _I will contact you again when I have the evidence._ " He clicked off.

Laurel blew out a pent breath. She shook her head and set the phone down. She briefly considered getting a new one, but... Peter Declan had claimed innocence all along, even in the face of clear evidence. Could it be true? Even if there was a sliver of a doubt, it could save a man's life.

At 11:00 PM, her phone rang again. Laurel muted the TV and went to look at the caller ID. Blocked. She picked it up. "Hello?"

The inhuman voice was back. " _I have proof that Peter Declan is innocent. Meet me in an hour at the alley on Way Street, across from the deli._ "

"Wait, who are you, really-?" She was talking to dead air. Meet a strange man in an alley at midnight? Or woman - the voice-changer could mask gender.

Laurel shook her head and paced. She couldn't just ignore this, write it off as some crank call. A man's life could be at stake. Could she, in good conscience, ignore this? No.

But there was no reason to be stupid about it, either. She brought up the phone and dialed.

==#==

The Hunter lay in wait, in the dark recesses of the alley. One sentry light over a door had been judiciously removed to provide adequate darkness. There was a fire escape to the north, a back alley to the west. Dumpsters and a raised delivery platform gave good cover.

The Hunter shifted his weight slowly from one foot to the other, suppressing the urge to pace. He did finally remove the burner phone from inside his jacket to glance at the screen.

He chewed his lip and dialled. "You're late," he growled as soon as she picked up.

" _I'm sorry, I can't meet with you now. Leave the evidence in the alley._ "

What? The Hunter snarled.

" _I'll have someone pick it up._ "

Someone? Who?

He was about to demand answers when the point was suddenly moot. A car blocked off the mouth of the alley, and a floodlight beamed into the dark space. "This is the SCPD. If anyone is in there, show yourself."

The Hunter mashed the disconnect button, jammed the phone into a back pocket. He dropped the evidence on the ground, then faded back to one of his escape routes.

A large shadow covered the alleyway, making the police officer an easy target as he entered. A flashlight beam played across the dark crevasses, perhaps painting the Hunter's sleeve before he slipped around the corner.

"SCPD! Hold it!" The cop ran after him, but the Hunter was long gone by the time he got to the corner.

==#==

"Are you sure it was this Hood Guy?" Lance asked Malone.

"Hood Guy, guy in a hoodie..." He shrugged. "Honestly, I barely caught a glimpse of him."

"All right, when forensics is done checking this stuff out, we'll have a look at it." Quentin got out his cell to let his daughter know.

==#==

The next day, he, Laurel, and a tech guy gathered in an interview room to review the evidence. "Everything came back clean," the tech guy told them. "The folder has records from Brodeur Chemical plant. Not only do they detail the hazardous waste that clearly wasn't reported to the EPA, there's a handwritten note about an employee named Camille that had to be 'taken care of.'"

Laurel's eyes widened. "That's Peter Declan's wife. Jason Brodeur did murder her and frame him!"

"What's this thing here?" Detective Lance indicated an oblong plastic lozenge.

"At first we were worried it was a bomb..." The tech broke off with a sheepish duck of his head. "Uh, but it turned out to be a digital recording device."

"Well, play it."

The tech glanced at Laurel. "Are you sure you want to hear it? It's not pretty."

"Yes," she insisted. "I'm a public defender, I hear all sorts of things that are 'not pretty.'"

He hit a button on the thing, and a burst of noise came out. It resolved into the sound of a man screaming.

" _Matthew Istook,_ " growled a second voice, garbled by a scrambler.

" _Who are y-?_ "

" _You killed Camille Declan._ "

" _I don't know what you're talk- AGH!_ "

" _You murdered her - confess!_ "

There was more screaming, the volume causing the noise to be distorted.

" _And you framed Peter Declan._ " In contrast, the scrambled voice remained even, emotionless... inhuman.

" _I didn't... AGH! Okay, okay, I did it! But it wasn't my idea! I-I-I... My boss, Jason Brodeur, he told me to! I had to do it! She was going to go to the EPA!_ "

Mercifully, the recording ended there.

"Well," Lance said dryly, "there's your confession." His mouth twisted as if tasting something bitter.

Laurel swallowed. "Doesn't he realize this isn't admissible in a court of law?"

"I don't think these papers were 'legally' obtained, either."

Laurel shook her head, turned away. She paced a few steps. "Still," she said after a moment. "It's enough to get a stay of execution for Peter Declan."

"Well, I need to send some guys to find this Istook fellow," her father said, heading for the door.

"Why? You can't question him based on this."

Lance turned back. "If this is the Hood Guy- and it sounds like his thing- then Matt Istook is most likely dead."

==#==

The riot was a nightmare. Laurel had gone to speak to Peter Declan, to deliver the good news about his stay of execution. And to see if he had any information that could corroborate the facts that pointed to Jason Brodeur having Camille murdered.

It turned out that Peter had seen copies of the toxic waste records - before the annotations were added. "That's what Camille and I were arguing about," he said. "I was afraid she'd lose her job..." But there had been no records at Declan's house. The murderer had made them disappear.

Laurel wasn't sure they could build a case on this tenuous evidence. Jason Brodeur must have had a lot more confidence in her if he'd staged a riot just to get Declan - and her - knifed.

The prison kept the outside world safe from its violent offenders, but inside, it was a death trap. Laurel had her self-defense skills, but against so many... The guard had wanted to stay put, to hide and hope the interview room kept them secure. It didn't.

Another guard appeared, led them through the gauntlet. Laurel didn't have time to question the ski mask, the voice modulator, not until later, when she was safe. When the EMT was checking the bruises on her neck, the bump on her head.

She'd fought, kept stray attackers at bay as the masked man cleared the way with brutal efficiency.

It only took one man a brief second of opportunity to blindside her, get her on the ground, start to choke the strength out of her.

Then the masked man grabbed her attacker, turned the tables, began to brutally beat him to death.

Laurel had never seen another human being killed before her eyes. The man had become an animal. She found her broken voice and cried for him to stop. Her breath caught in her throat as the killer turned his eyes on her. Pale, soulless eyes.

She didn't think she'd ever forget them.

Then they were outside, in a cordon of police officers, guards, EMTs. Laurel and Peter Declan were caught in the safety of this net while their rescuer vanished.

"Laurel?"

She blinked and looked up, trying to shake off the lethargy of shock. "Tommy? What...?" The intensity of his blue eyes took her breath away. "What are you doing here?"

"It's all over the news," he said, coming closer. "I had to see if you were all right." His brow wrinkled as he took in her injuries, her soiled and rent clothing. "Are you...? Did they...?" He swallowed.

"No," she reassured him swiftly. "I'm fine."

"Can I take you home?" He looked at the EMT. "She can go home, can't she?"

The woman shrugged. "She's pretty banged up, but there's no sign of concussion. She'll be fine."

Tommy tugged at Laurel's hand. She stood and felt pulled to him, as if magnetized. She buried her face in his chest, inhaled the smell of him, his cologne, his leather jacket. His arms closed comfortingly around her.

They got into his car and he drove them downtown, towards his apartment. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again in the silence, after she'd told him the highlights of the story.

"Yeah... yeah, I'm just... feeling a little beat up," she said with a tinge of wry humor. She didn't want to make it into a big deal. She didn't want it to _be_ a big deal. She'd survived! She was alive. It was over.

Tommy said, "I'd kill anybody who tried to hurt you."

Laurel felt a chill, her mind veering towards that scene... those inhuman eyes, the vision of one man killing another over her. "Tommy, promise me you won't become a killer, like that guy... whoever he is."

At first, he didn't reply. Laurel felt a twinge of nerves. Then he smiled, and there was that Tommy Merlyn she'd known and loved all these years. "I won't," he said warmly. "You know me, I'd faint at the sight of blood."

If she didn't believe him, Laurel chose to let it go for now. She knew Tommy. He wasn't like that.

== _X_ ==


	11. Investigations

**Investigations**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: no  
Violence: no  
Nudity: no  
Sex: no  
Other: nah

 _Author's Note:_

Nobody is buying this story that Tommy could be the Hood Guy!? Yes, I *know* he's such a cyoooote widdle puppyyyyyy! But didn't you read "Trademark" by thewolfandme? Read that, and you will believe there could be a true sociopath hiding in there somewhere!

Oh well. That won't stop the characters from wondering. SOON! Soon things will start to be revealed and... I think you won't like it. In a good way... I hope.

* * *

 **Investigations**

 **==#==**

"Adam Hunt," Lance recited, "Martin Somers, Jason Brodeur. What's the connection, besides being members of the Rich Scumbags Country Club?"

"There is one thing they have in common," Hilton mused, paging through the files. "You're not going to like it."

"Why?"

"They were all under investigation and heading to court. And their prosecuting attourney... Laurel Lance."

Quentin blinked. "You don't think my daughter has anything to do wi-"

"No, no; of course not," his partner was quick to reassure him. "Maybe she has an admirer? A guardian angel. Is she seeing anyone?"

"Not that I know of." Lance pursed his lips. Wouldht she have told him? Maybe not. "I'll ask her."

"Maybe I should go," Hilton suggested.

Lance shook his head. "No, if we try to get all official, she'll just transform into lawyer mode. She's not a suspect; I'll just ask her."

==#==

Quentin invited his daughter over for dinner. Nothing fancy, but a nice home-cooked meal instead of take-out. They chatted a bit, but he felt the weight of his professional curiosity, and couldn't stand the artifice any longer, so he just came out with it.

"Laurel, are you seeing anyone?"

She looked at him, pausing thoughtfully over her green beans. "Why do you ask?" she said when she was done chewing.

"Look, Laurel... it's just a question."

"Are you investigating me?"

"Can't a father ask his daughter about her life?" he griped.

"Come on, Dad. You don't think I noticed that the last few big cases I had never got to trial because the defendants were murdered?"

He sighed in exasperation, but that was his baby girl - smart and savvy. "The SCPD did notice that, yes. But it's just circumstantial." Quentin watched her poke her mashed potatoes a moment. "There is someone," he deduced.

"Sort of."

"Sorta?"

"It's complicated."

"Well, who is it?"

She grimaced. "Tommy," she confessed. Quentin felt uneasiness rise in his gut. It couldn't be. "Tommy Merlyn," she clarified at his look. "I didn't want to tell you, because I know you wouldn't approve."

"I _don't_ approve, Laurel. Rich scumbags like Merlyn and Queen - they don't care about people."

"Tommy's not like that."

"Have you seen his rap sheet?"

She put down her fork. "I know he had some youthful indiscretions."

"'Indiscretions'? Laurel, the guy was this close to doing time for rape."

"That was never proven, Dad."

"Not in a court of law. Why was that? Oh, right, because the victim suddenly dropped all charges."

"Those were trumped-up charges," she argued.

"Or someone, some rich scumbag," he emphasized is point by jabbing his fork in her direction, "paid her off."

She shook her head. "My salary doesn't cover me arguing old cases over dinner." She picked up her fork again, but eyed her plate with decreased appetite. "I can assure you, Tommy is not some vigilante Robin Hood who runs around at night shooting people with a bow and arrow. He's honestly a nice guy, Dad."

Quentin chewed without replying. He didn't want to argue with his daughter, either. But he'd already been poking around in Tommy Merlyn's history, and there were some red flags.

==#==

Moira's town car drew to a stop on the overlook, and she stepped out. She crossed briskly to the silver limousine, though she did take a moment to look out over the city, the sky stained red behind it.

Malcolm's driver held the door, and she slid into the back seat, allowing the man to close her in. Malcolm sat across from her, watching her with calculating eyes.

"We have a problem," he said, opening a leather-bound folder on his lap, and presenting a photocopy of that police sketch of the man in the hood.

Moira scoffed. "Are you afraid your wealth makes you a target?"

His lips twisted in amusement. "Adam Hunt. Martin Somers. Jason Brodeur. You see the pattern here?"

She glanced away in worry.

"He's not just targeting the rich. He's targeting the List." Malcolm leaned forward. "You realize what this means. He has inside knowledge of our organization. Knowledge Robert had."

"That died with him," Moira snapped, struggling not to let the pain get to her.

"My sources in the SCPD tell me that Oliver is a potential suspect."

She glared at him. Instead of rehashing the same old argument, she launched her own attack. "Well, _my_ sources inform me that _Tommy_ is also a suspect."

Malcolm leaned back a little. His mouth compressed into a tight line. "It's not possible-"

"Not possible? For him to have stumbled on to your own List? For him to be so unlike the Tommy you know? And just how well do you know him, Malcolm?"

He had no defense for that. "Moira, you know him. Does he seem like a ruthless killer to you?"

She pursed her lips. Tommy didn't seem anything of the sort. But then again, neither did Malcolm. She looked him in the eye. "I know _my_ son. I know how he spends his days - waking up late, then he barely eats... he goes to therapy and comes home exhausted to sleep all afternoon. He manages dinner on good days, then he goes to bed and he sleeps very badly."

"I am sorry about that, Moira," he said with soft contriteness. "If you want to investigate Tommy, then please feel free to do so."

"I will do that. And trust me, it won't involve kidnapping and torture." She stabbed him with her words. "There are other methods."

"I bow to your discretion," he said smoothly. "If it turns out not to be either of our sons, then we have a hidden traitor in our midst. We need to root them out and destroy them."

Moira tensed, fearing she would come under Malcolm's scrutiny. But then he said, "I'll need your help. You're the only one I can trust."

"Of course, Malcolm," she said with a smile.

== _X_ ==


	12. Turning Point

**Turning Point**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: yes  
Violence: yes  
Nudity: no  
Sex: sexual assault  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

I was going to just tag this onto the end of last chapter. But the tone is so different. Then I was going to have a follow up scene to explain some things... but then i thought: Naaah!

But fear not! Things will start to become more clear from this point out. Um... maybe in a little while.

* * *

 **Turning Point**

 **==#==**

He sat on the chilly rooftop with Maseo, cradling the long heavy rifle. He was in a bad mood. "Why the hell are we here? Who is this supposed target?" Maseo hadn't told him shit.

"Aim down there, at the hotel terrace. In a few minutes, your target will cross towards the lobby. You have ten paces in which to eliminate him."

"This is bullshit. Who is this target? What if someone else walks through there? Does Waller just want me to shoot some random person?" She was still pissy about his comment regarding being a gun she could just point at people she didn't like. Maseo must have parroted the whole conversation back to her, like an obedient stooge.

"You will know him when you see him," the Japanese operative said unhelpfully.

"So don't shoot any women who happen to walk by? Nice to know." He set up the rifle's tripod, peere through the scope. Oliver didn't want to kill some random person. Or anyone. But when Waller got mad... her punishments got creative.

He tilted the rifle to scan the entire terrace. Wou would show up? A Yakuza thug? A corrupt businessman? A little boy like Akio?

Then Oliver saw him. American, dark haired. He stopped in the middle of his ten paces and turned. "What the hell?" Oliver jerked back from the scope. "That's Tommy!'

"He is your target. Shoot, now!"

"I am not shooting my best friend!" Waller had gone too far! Now he knew what was up with this mystery target. If the orders were to go shoot Tommy Merlyn, he would have told her _Hell, No!_ "He's not a terrorist! He didn't do shit!"

"He's here looking for you. He could compromise you."

Oliver bent back to the scope, to see his friend. Tommy had come looking for him! That email he'd tried to send, it must have gotten through!

Tommy was on the phone to someone. Then he hung up and turned fully, with a smile. Someone had come with him. Oliver saw the swish of long hair through the scope, then Laurel was there. She had come, too!

Then she was in Tommy's arms. Ice settled over Oliver's entire being, freezing the breath in his lungs, slowing his heart.

They had betrayed him. His best friend and his girl.

The couple broke apart. Still smiling at each other, they turned to walk into the hotel, hand in hand.

Oliver's numb finger curled on the trigger. The gun barked, and Tommy's skull exploded into a spray of blood and bone.

He watched the body drop through the gunsight. He saw Laurel recoil in shock, all happiness wiped from her face. He saw her mouth drop open. They were several hundred yards away, but he heard her scream carried faintly on the wind.

The touch of Maseo's hand broke him out of his reverie. "You've done well. It was better this way. Come, let us return, and drink until we forget today."

"No." Oliver shook him off and slung the rifle.. "The mission's not over yet."

==#==

He'd strong-armed Maseo into helping with the kidnapping. It was either that, or report to Waller that he'd lost Oliver, again. With two ARGUS agents, it was pathetically easy to abduct a young American woman.

"You can go now," he growled at his partner.

"But... I thought you needed me to pretend to be Hong Kong police?"

"No."

The Japanese man hesitated. Maybe he hadn't completely excised his conscience after all.

Oliver felt nothing but intensifying rage. He could kill Maseo. The other man perhaps sensed it, for he turned and walked away.

Oliver went back, and he was alone with Laurel. Heart thumping, he rushed to her. She was drugged, bound, tied to a chair. He tugged at her bonds, frantic to get them loose. "Laurel...," he breathed.

She moaned, stirred. Blinked.

He took her face in his hands, lungs pumping with the nearness of her. "Laurel!"

"Wh-What? Where...?" She jerked back. "Let me go!"

"Laurel, it's me. It's Oliver."

Her eyes, reddened from crying, bleary from the drugs, fluttered. Confusion, disbelief flashed in them. Then they widened with recognition. "Oli-"

He crushed her mouth with his, with such longing, such desperation. His hands pawed at the ropes, tore at her clothes. Need burned him alive. She screamed into his mouth, twisted her head away. "Stop it! No, Oliver, no!"

She couldn't stop him.

He couldn't stop himself.

== _X_ ==


	13. Charlie

**Charlie**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: a bit  
Violence: mentioned  
Nudity: no  
Sex: implied  
Other: homophobia mentioned/implied

 _Author's Note:_

And here's where it takes another left turn you weren't expecting. Hang on! (Also, sorry that this chapter is shorter than the last! Oops!) (And I couldn't think of a better title, so...)

NOTE: I want to warn you now... I have no idea how this story is going to end, or even how it is going to go after it reaches a certain point. It might end up without an end. :/

* * *

 **Charlie**

 **==#==**

Tommy pulled the car over in front of Ratchet's because he couldn't believe he saw Oliver there. There at the same time as a crowd milling out in front, a bunch of rough men in black leather jackets, with chains and spikes abounding, and Tommy feared for Oliver's safety. He rolled down the window. "Hey, Oliver!" he yelled over the noise of the crowd and the music spilling from the bar.

Oliver - yeah, that really was him - was talking to a burly guy with short black hair and beard. He stopped and came over. "Tommy, man, what are you doing here? This isn't your scene," he said pleasantly enough, leaning down to the window. The other guy sauntered over behind him.

"Where've you been? Your -" he bit his tongue, thinking that saying his mom was worried about him, in front of a bunch of biker leatherboys, was asking for trouble. "We've been worried."

Burly Dude said, "Your boyfriend's cute."

Ol straightened. "He's not my-" He cut himself off and clamped his lips. Then he turned. "I'll be just a sec."

With a creak of leather jacket, Burly Dude folded his arms and strolled off.

Oliver leaned back down. "Just tell everybody I'm fine, and that I'm having a good time, 'k?" with a quick wink, he was gone, following his biker buddy off to God-knows-where.

Tommy stared, jaw agape. Then he noticed the other guys looking at him with interest. He closed his mouth, closed the window, and drove off.

"That... was _not_ what it looked like," he told himself shakily. Oliver? Seriously? Not that there was anything wrong with that. But Oliver. _Seriously?_ No island could change a man that much.

Could it?

No.

Seriously?

No!

"Okay, this is stupid. There is no point in having crazy speculations. Either go ahead and believe Oliver is gay, or bi, or whatever... or believe he's not, and that was something else, but just chill already!" He shook his head at himself.

Next debate - should he call Aunt Mo and pass on Oliver's message? And get asked all kinds of awkward questions? Oh no. No no no. But she was so worried.

Solution - a quick text letting her know Oliver was all right... and then blip, phone off, so he could concentrate on his date with Laurel.

Which went fantastically well. He utterly embarrassed himself with the overly-spiced food, but it was worth it to hear Laurel's laugh. He grew confident enough to tell her how he really felt - not quite the 'L' word, but he made it clear that he wanted to be a new man, a better man, to be with her. Now that she and Oliver had officially buried their relationship, it was all so much easier.

She seemed amenable, leaving Tommy walking on air after he kissed her goodnight and headed home. He was so high on love, he didn't need his usual nightcaps, which is probably why he was more alert in the morning. Enough to notice something in the paper over his bagel and coffee.

The article was about a prostitute brutally murdered last night, stabbed through the eye. Tommy winced. Another homophobic attack against a gay man, but he wasn't really reading the article; it was the small photo that accompanied it.

It looked a hell of a lot like that guy Oliver had been talking to.

== _X_ ==


	14. Family Ties

**Family Ties**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: no  
Violence: mentioned  
Nudity: no  
Sex: implied  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

After this story arc, things begin to become clear. Really! I mean it this time...

* * *

 **Family Ties**

 **==#==**

Tommy couldn't stop thinking about that news article. It had to be just a crazy coincidence, right? Well he didn't think _Oliver_ had killed that man - or anyone! This was Oliver, man. And he had PTSD. Violence would send him zoning out or into one of those scary flashback things. He couldn't hold a pen, let alone a knife.

Maybe he saw something? If he didn't black out and forget.

Tommy could ask him, but... that led into very uncomfortable territory.

The police would be looking for any information regarding the case. They could ask Oliver what he saw or heard or whatever. Oh, hell no. The cops might make him a suspect, might think he was nuts, that he flipped out and murdered someone.

Tommy could tell Moira, let her decide who to talk to, if anyone. Sure, buddy. Just tell Oliver's _mom_ that he went out with a male prostitute - for purely platonic reasons, I'm sure - who was attacked and killed.

No way.

Just forget it.

But he couldn't. He had to tell _someone_.

Laurel? She was a lawyer. Sure, she totally wanted to get involved in defending her ex-boyfriend. Maybe he could pose it hypothetically?

' _Laurel, if a guy was talking to a male prostitute one day, and that male prostitute got killed-'_

 _'Oh my God, what did you do!?'_

No, well, that was it, then. Aside from calling Oliver's shrink or pouring his heart out to a bartender, there was no one he could tell. Strangers would suspect Oliver, his family would just be hurt.

Tommy blinked. There _was_ a friend of the family who had enough emotional distance to think this through clearly...

== _#_ ==

The mansion looked the same as it always had - well, what did he expect? For his dad to turn it into a decked-out bachelor pad? "I know my way," he told the butler. Malcolm was in his study, of course.

"Tommy." Malcolm looked up with a smile. "I was surprised to get your call."

"I'm surprised you had time to see me," he countered without thinking.

Malcolm pursed his lips and looked away.

"I mean... you seem to have been very busy lately," Tommy offered as a sort of non-apology.

"What is it you wanted to see me about?"

Tommy paced back and forth in front of the desk. "This... This is weird," he managed. "And I need you to swear that this conversation is completely confidential."

"I give you my word." His father began to look worried, and Tommy started to think this was maybe a bad idea. His dad would probably laugh him out of the house. Then again, that was one of the better outcomes of this conversation.

"Did you hear the news about a guy killed last night? Stabbed in the eye?" He didn't see any light of recognition in his father's eyes. "They said it was a gay-bashing incident."

Malcolm shrugged. "I don't recall hearing about it, but unfortunately, that's not an uncommon occurance. Why?"

"It's just... okay, this is the weird part. I can't swear to it 100 percent, but I think I saw Oliver talking to that guy yesterday."

Malcolm frowned thoughtfully. "Where was this?"

"Down at Rachet's."

"The gay leather bar?"

Tommy gaped at his dad. "You know about that?"

Malcolm snorted a laugh. "Tommy, I've lived here for more years than you've been alive. I know everything there is to know about this city. Sit down. Where did you see this news report?"

Tommy sat and leaned on the desk. "It was in the Starling City Tribune."

Malcolm worked on his laptop, pulled the article up and scanned it. He turned the screen so Tommy could see. "Is this him?"

He nodded. "That looks... a hell of a lot like the guy."

"And you saw Oliver with him? You're sure?"

"Oliver was just talking to him. And yeah, I pulled over to talk to Oliver. It was him."

"Do you know what they were talking about?"

"No."

"What did he say to you?"

"Uhh..."

"You said you talked to him," Malcolm probed. When Tommy hesitated, reluctant to explain what it sounded like, Malcolm said, "Just say it, Tommy. You know I gave my word that it's in confidence."

"Well, I said we were worried about him, you know, running off like he does... Uh, and then he told me to tell Aunt Mo - well, everybody - that he was having a good time." He jiggled his foot in agitation.

"Was that it?"

"Yeah. Then he left."

"With this man?"

"Yeah. Sorta. I mean, he followed him."

"Did you see where they went?"

"No."

"To a vehicle? Down an alley?"

"I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't have let him go. But he didn't seem to be in any danger. Everything seemed fine. Weird, but fine." Tommy frowned at himself. What could he have done? He couldn't have bodily dragged Oliver into the car.

"You don't think Oliver had anything to do with this man's death, do you?"

"What? No! No, I just thought... I don't know. What if he saw or heard something that could help the police? But I don't want them to get ideas about him." Tommy sighed and leaned back in his seat. "I don't know."

Malcolm nodded thoughtfully. "I have some contacts in the SCPD. I'll see if they have any leads. They might already have a suspect."

Tommy nodded. "Thanks, Dad."

"Sure. You might ask Oliver yourself - or see if he is concerned. He'd talk to you, since you already know about it."

"I will." Tommy stood. "Thanks again, Dad. This is a big help." He felt utterly relieved to get this off his chest, to pass it on to someone else.

Malcolm smiled and got up fro his chair. "Are you sure you can't stay for dinner?"

"No, I gotta jet. I'll call you soon."

== _#_ ==

Moira paged idly through the catalogue, not really seeing details, just letting her mind drift while she looked at the colours, the shapes. Then she began to fret about work. With Walter gone, she had a lot of responsibility, keeping Queen Consolidated on course, as well as her clandestine duties on Malcolm Merlyn's project.

Her thoughts turned to him, and his investigations into the supposed breach of his organization. Couldn't the vigilante attacks on men from the List have been a coincidence? And speaking of coincidence, had Malcolm sent her to deal with Paul Caponi, then hired someone to shoot him? No, a brazen daylight attack was not his style. And he still trusted her, or so it seemed. She rubbed her shoulder where it had been deeply bruised.

The police had no leads on the shooter, but suspected rivals such as the Triad. Another random coincidence.

Moira's investigation into Tommy's life hadn't yielded any fruit as of yet. It woud take some time. With a sigh of frustration at herself, she flipped through the catalogue once more, unseeing.

A light tap came at her bedroom door.

"Thea, you don't have to knock."

"What about me?" Malcolm entered the room, and Moira's heart leapt into her throat. What was he doing here? Inside her home, inside her _bedroom_. She felt helpless, her nightgown suddenly too thin and flimsy. She drew the blanket tighter.

Malcolm stopped hesitantly. "I hope you don't mind. Thea let me in."

Moira took hold of herslef. "What are you doing here?" she growled at him.

"I came to see how you were." He resumed his approach.

"Surely a man of such means as yourself has access to a telephone," she snarked, still off balance.

"You were hurt, not too long ago," he said, perching easily on the side of the bed. "You were shot at. And now, Walter has gone on an extended business trip. I came to see how you were doing."

"I'm fine," she insisted.

"Good. I'm glad." He smiled a moment, warmly. But then that faded. "I also need to talk to you about Oliver."

"Not again, Malcolm. Oliver can't possibly be this archer you're so concerned about. When he heard the gunshots, he started screaming, having another of those flashbacks of his."

It pained her to remember it. It had been chaos. One moment, she'd been tearing into Caponi, and the next, she was on the ground with Mr. Diggle shielding her, her son screaming as if he were dying. Moira hadn't felt any pain, just some bumps and bruises. She had only been worried to death about Oliver.

"He ran away," she finished telling Malcolm. "It took the police and Mr. Diggle hours to find him, curled up in an alley, scared out of his mind."

"He wasn't hurt?"

"No, thank God. They had to give him some sedatives at the hospital. Then we came home and he went straight to bed." Really, Oliver had been in worse shape than she had. "He can't stand violence, or loud noises, or even being touched. There is no way he is running around this city, shooting people with a bow and arrow."

Malcolm nodded solemnly. "I think it's time you considered having him treated in a facility."

"I'm not putting my son in a mental hospital!"

"You wouldn't have to. I have a private facility..."

"Of course you do." She glowed at Malcolm. He bit his lower lip, ducked his head. Was he laughing? "I'm not turning Oliver over to your care."

Malcolm sighed. "We used to be friends, Moira. I know you think I had something to do with what happened, but I have _never_ meant any harm to you or your family. I want to help you, and I want very much for Oliver to get better."

"He is getting better."

"No... he's already killed a prostitute."

"What?" Breath left her body. "No."

Malcolm took a piece of newspaper from his inner pocket, unfolded it, and showed it to her. She looked at the picture in confusion. This didn't look like any hooker.

Malcolm said softly, "Oliver was seen with this man only hours before he was killed."

"No..." She shook her head. "No, that's a lie!" Slander against her family!

"Tommy saw him."

"Tommy?"

"Oliver has been having blackouts, hasn't he? Periods of time when he doesn't know where he's been, what he's been doing." Moira started shaking her head again, but Malcolm continued mercilessly. "He's been seeing prostitutes, hasn't he?"

"No..."

"He blanks out. He has flashbacks where he's not in control of what he is doing, not even aware of what's going on around him. He could lash out in one of these episodes. He could hurt someone. Even you, Moira."

She swallowed, then felt tears on her cheeks. Her shoulder ached again, and she found herself unconsciously rubbing her neck.

"He's a danger to himself and others. Please, let me take care of him. The police don't need to know. It doesn't have to go on his medical record."

Malcolm took her hand. His was warm, because she had gone ice cold. She didn't want her son in Malcolm's clutches. But the police would be worse. She didn't want to believe Oliver was capable of doing the things in this article... but she'd seen him come home, dazed, lost. With inexplicable bruises and cuts. And blood.

She looked down in defeat. She nodded.

"I'll come by with some men to pick him up in the morning."

== _X_ ==


	15. Best Interests

**Best Interests**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: no  
Violence: a bit  
Nudity: no  
Sex: no  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

Sorry this is so short.

Props to the Suicidal Tendencies fans! \m/

* * *

 **Best Interests**

 **==#==**

"Mr. Diggle, we will no longer be requiring your service." Moira tore the severance check from the ledger and brought it to him.

"With all due respect, ma'am, I've never had to work with a client who didn't want protection."

"Well, I am your client," she reminded him. Then she sighed. "You've done an exemplary job with all of... Oliver's special needs. I do thank you for your service."

Diggle took his check with a slight frown. "Then... may I ask why I'm being dismissed?"

"As I said, we will no longer be needing your services."

And that was all she would say on the matter.

A while later, Oliver came down. He refused breakfast again.

"Oliver, you have to eat."

"I do eat." If his erratic eating schedule and diet counted. "Just... not first thing in the morning, okay?"

"All right." Moira took a breath. "I need to speak to you about something important today." She ushered him in to the sitting room. "Here, sit down."

"Mom, it makes me nervous when you tell me to sit down." He was tensing, getting fidgety.

Moira tried to calm her own nerves. "I'm sorry. Please."

He perched on the settee and she sat across from him. She took another breath. "Sweetheart, I know you've been having problems... adjusting to things. It's been difficult for all of us, you most of all..."

Oliver startled, looked towards the hall. She tried to recapture his attention. "We've been talking about how to best help you."

"Who's 'we'?" He looked at her sharply.

"Your family."

Malcolm appeared in the doorway. "Hello, Oliver."

Oliver stood. "What's going on?"

"Sweetheart, everything is fine."

Malcolm said, "Your mother has decided that it's in your best interests to be in a place where you can be looked after."

Oliver whirled on her. " _You_ decided? What _my_ best interests are?"

She gaped, having no words. Malcolm told him, "We know what you've been doing, Oliver."

Suddenly, Oliver turned and rushed him. Moira thought he was trying to escape, but somehow Malcolm hooked his arm and spun him into a hold. Oliver rammed his elbow hard into the older man's stomach; Malcolm's grip was broken as he doubled over.

Two men appeared, Malcolm's men, and they grabbed Oliver's arms. He thrashed and fought like an animal. A third man appeared and injected him with something.

Slowly, Oliver crumpled to the floor, a bewildered look on his face. Moira held a hand over her mouth and prayed he could forgive her.

Malcolm instructed his men to get a stretcher, while he straightened his suit jacket, looking a little green.

"You won't harm him," Moira pleaded for reassurance. "Promise me, Malcolm."

"I won't," he said, still catching his breath. "I just want to help him. I want you to have your son back, whole."

Moira could only pray that would happen.

== _X_ ==

* * *

 _End Notes:_

They go, 'Me and your mom have been noticing lately

That you've been having a lot of problems.  
You've been going off for no reason and we're afraid  
You're gonna hurt somebody;  
We're afraid you're gonna hurt yourself.  
So we decided that it would be in your best interest  
If we put you somewhere  
Where you could get the help that you need.'

And I go, 'Wait, what are you talking about? WE decided?  
MY best interest? how can YOU know what MY best interest is?'

-Suicidal Tendencies, "Institutionalized"


	16. Institutionalized

**Institutionalized**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: yes  
Violence: a bit  
Nudity: no  
Sex: no  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

Don't worry; everything is just fine. Oh, look... I put two of my mini-chapterlets together in one chapter! (I bet you're glad.) Big clue coming up...!

* * *

 **Institutionalized**

 **==#==**

Oliver woke up in a strange room, sparsely furnished. A dark-haired woman leaned over him. "Whu...?"

She said something unintelligible.

He grimace. "I don't speak Chinese," he complained.

" _Japanese,_ " she corrected harshly.

"Who are you? Where am I? Where's Slade?"

"You don't remember? This is Hong Kong."

"This is the embassy?" What was a Japanese woman doing in an American embassy?

Oliver thrust aside the blankets and stood. He had on his shirt, his pants. Of course his shoes were missing. He looked under the bed. It was bare. Not even dust.

He looked around again. Four bare walls in neutral blue. A bed, a dresser. No windows, one door. He went to it. Locked, of course. He slammed a fist against it. "Where am I?" he yelled. "You can't keep me here!"

He darted to the dresser, started rifling the drawers for anything he could use to break out - or to turn into a makeshift weapon. There were only clothes - socks, underwear, a drawer of shirts. He threw them aside in a frenzy. Nothing! He ran to the bed, there had to be something; a slat, a piece he could break off the frame or the box spring!

"Oliver."

He whirled, hands up to intercept an attack, but no one was there. The voice was tinny, coming through a speaker. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"

"I'll explain everything to you, but first you need to calm down. Can you do that?"

Oliver's eyes darted to the upper corners of the room, over the door. He spotted the intercom, a small LED light indicating a camera in operation. He tore his eyes away, drew his fists in close, folded his arms. They were waiting. "What's going on, Uncle Malcolm?"

The door opened and Malcolm Merlyn walked in. He didn't close the door behind him. "Everything is fine, Oliver; don't worry. You're safe."

"Where am I?"

"This is a private mental facility-"

"A _what?_ "

"Calm down. Let me explain."

Oliver looked around again, seemingly in confusion, then he leapt at Malcolm.

This time, Malcolm wasn't caught off guard. He sidestepped and blocked a wild punch. Oliver pressed the attack in a flurry of blows. Malcolm tried to secure him in an arm bar, but he countered and slipped out of it. Oliver threw Malcolm to the floor, and he rolled with it.

Then other men were in the room, jabbing Oliver with a needle. He fought a brief second more, then collapsed.

Malcolm got to his feet, straightening his clothes. "Restrain him," he ordered, panting.

What the hell was that? Oliver hadn't learned to fight by wrestling bears on a deserted island. Malcolm straightened his tie with a jerk, took a deep breath. It's a good thing he'd taken over the boy's therapy when he had.

== _#_ ==

"I don't think this is a good idea," Malcolm started.

"You are not going to stop me from seeing my son." Moira glared at him. She wanted to see this 'facility' for herself. She wanted to see that Oliver was all right. There was no way Malcolm was going to put her off with his excuses.

"Just... be careful. He isn't... He's not the boy we remember."

She bristled, recalling Dr. Lamb's similar words. The Oliver that returned... was not the Oliver she had lost. He was a broken shell, a ghost of his former self.

Malcolm was keeping him in a dimly-lit room. Her heart went out, seeing him lying there, strapped to the gurney like some sort of deranged criminal. "Oliver, sweetheart..." She approached, and then hesitated - what if he were angry at her, for being complicit in this?

"Mom...?" he slurred, blearily trying to focus. "Let... let me out."

She took his hand. "It's going to be all right," she soothed.

"Mom..." His eyes cleared, widened. His hand trembled, his whole body started to shake. He tugged ineffectually against the restraints. "Help me! _Help me!_ " He panted in fear.

Tears spilled from her eyes. "I'm sorry, Oliver. I'm so sorry."

His hand jerked from hers, then seized her wrist in an iron grip. "Let me loose," he growled in a guttural voice.

Moira gasped as he yanked her forward. She didn't recognize that voice, that snarl on his face - or that look in his eyes, so feral. She saw a stranger in her son's face, a wild beast. Pain flared in her arm. "Oliver, you're hurting me."

"I'll do worse than that," he spit, twisting cruelly. "Give me the keys!"

"I can't," she blurted. The truth stabbed at her heart. Oliver... was so much much worse than anyone realized.

"You get me out of here, _you bitch!_ "

Moira threw herself back in a desperate attempt to escape. It didn't work. He was so strong - too strong! "Please! Let go!"

"Give me the keys!"

She wrenched, twisted, and finally broke free. She stumbled, caught herself on the wall with her uninjured hand. She pushed off and ran for the door.

"I will kill you, you fucking bitch!"

She escaped and rushed down the hall, cradling her arm, blinded by tears.

She barged through Malcolm's office, startling the man up from his desk. He barely got his mouth open to speak.

"That is _not_ my son!" she snapped at him.

He tried to intercept her, but she didn't even slow down.

She managed to get to her car, struggling to control her breath. It wouldn't do to break down sobbing now. She had to get away.

Oliver was dead. The thought sobered her. He'd been dead these five years; she'd grown used to that pain. A sob escaped her.

She crushed it down, started the car. It was old pain. She could live with it.

== _#_ ==

Malcolm stared after Moira in puzzlement and concern. Should he go after her? But why was she upset? If she were angry at his treatment of Oliver, she'd tear into Malcolm, not run away.

 _That is_ not _my son!_

Alarmed, he went to check on Oliver.

He entered the room cautiously. Oliver lay in the bed, still restrained. He made a soft noise, and Malcolm realized he was crying. Malcolm went to the bedside. Oliver's head flicked to focus on him with wide, tear-filled eyes. "Uncle Malcolm?"

"It's okay, Oliver."

"I'm scared," he cried in a thin voice. "Where am I? Where's my mommy?"

Malcolm gaped at this regressive, childlike Oliver. This wasn't the man who had viciously attacked him twice. Is this what Moira had meant?

"Did I get kidnapped?"

"No," Malcolm reassured him. He went over and laid a hand on Oliver's arm. "No, you're safe."

"Where am I?"

"It's... a hospital."

"Am I sick? Are they going to take my tonsils out again? Wh- How come I'm tied up?" He squirmed in the restraints.

"Easy, Ollie, easy. It's doctor's orders." Should he unstrap the boy? Malcolm didn't think that was a good idea.

"Where's Mommy? I want my mommy."

"She'll be here soon," Malcolm promised. "Try to get some rest." He patted Oliver's arm and made to withdraw.

" _No!_ Don't leave me!" Oliver thrashed in his bonds, hyperventilating. "No! _No!_ "

Malcolm went to the cabinet for a sedative. He turned in alarm as Oliver suddenly froze. The young man's eyes were wide, glassy, staring. In the grip of another horrifying flashback, he started screaming.

== _#_ ==

Malcolm had given Oliver a low dose of the sedative, and managed to calm him down, but not enough to transfer him to his room. The businessman paced in his office, glancing nervously at the room monitor. "Moira, please," he said into the phone. "He keeps crying for his mother."

" _I told you, Malcolm: my son is dead._ " She hung up.

Malcolm blew out a pent breath. He had a difficult job ahead of him, tending to Oliver, and now having to contend with this break between him and his mother.

He prepared for a long night of watching over Oliver.

== _X_ ==


	17. Trust

**Trust**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: maybe  
Violence: a bit  
Nudity: no  
Sex: no  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

Another short one. It's that or none, so shush!

* * *

 **Trust**

 **==#==**

"I don't understand what I'm doing here." Oliver hunched on the edge of his bed, clad in loose cotton pants and overshirt. Pajamas, really. Or prison clothes. He had no shoes, only slippers. He hadn't been allowed to shave, so his beard was getting dark and itchy. "Why can't I leave?"

His uncle Malcolm explained patiently. "You need to be under supervision, Oliver. You could hurt yourself."

"I don't-" He shook his head, ran a hand over his shorn hair. This made no sense. Wasn't he already in therapy? With a licensed psychiatrist? He was pretty sure his godfather wasn't a shrink. So why the hell had he kidnapped Oliver and brought him here? And his mother agreed to all this?

"You trust me, don't you?" Malcolm asked.

Oliver gave him a judgmental look.

Malcolm saw that and pursed his lips. "Do you remember where you were Wednesday night?"

"Home," Oliver said slowly. "In bed."

Malcolm shook his head. "Do you remember talking to a man outside Ratchet's?"

He frowned. What? "No."

"Do you remember talking to Tommy outside Ratchet's?"

What the hell was he talking about? Why would Tommy - or himself - be at a leather bar?

"Do you remember..." Malcolm fished in his pocket for a piece of paper. "This man?"

He handed Oliver a printed picture of a man, and for a second, Oliver thought it was Slade. But no, it wasn't him; it was someone else. Slade was dead.

He shook his head, confused. "Who is this?"

"A man named Charlie."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"Tommy saw you with this man, a few hours before he was murdered."

"You think I killed someone!?" Oliver barked, his eyes going wide.

"No, I think... you blacked out, and something happened."

The bottom dropped out of Oliver's stomach. "You do think I killed someone." He started shaking. Flashes of memory began to break into his consciousness. The island forest. The cave. The bird, the man. He had to get to the air control tower and disable _kill_ the man there before he could radio for help. There was a gun.

Why did he have a gun?

Then the gun was pointed at him, and the man was about to alert Fyers, to recapture Oliver and bring him back to be beaten and tortured again. He froze, his heart hammering in fear.

Suddenly, Slade was there. He dispatched the mercenary with brutal efficiency, then slapped the gun into Oliver's hand and left.

With a grimace, Oliver set the thing on the console. What was he going to do with a gun? He was a party boy from Starling City, not a gangster, a merc.

"Oliver?"

He blinked. The pale blue room came back into focus.

"Where did you go just now?" Malcolm asked him.

"The island," he replied automatically.

Malcolm leaned towards him, eyes searching his face. "What happened there?"

He looked away, leaned back. "I don't want to talk about that." He rubbed the palm of his right hand, still feeling the textured grip of the gun. Dread still weighted his stomach.

"Oliver, we're going to have to, if we want to get to the bottom of this."

Fear rose inside, making his limbs cold. "No. I don't..."

Malcolm huffed slightly and took a firmer tone. "We need to do this. The police won't be so understanding."

"I didn't do anything!" His ears rang with panic. _Had_ he done something? He didn't know; he didn't remember. He also didn't remember how he got here. Things were slipping away again. "I didn't do anything!" he insisted again in desperation.

"I know, Oliver; I know," Malcolm said reassuringly. "You have to trust me." He carefully touched Oliver's forearm, drew Oliver to look at him. "You've known me all your life, Oliver. I'd never do anything to hurt you."

"I know."

"Your father was my closest friend. He's not here, now." Malcolm swallowed, a bit choked up. "So I need to take care of you. Will you let me do that?"

"Of course, Uncle Malcolm." His voice soothed Oliver, he felt his panic starting to melt. And his father had trusted Malcolm. Could Oliver do any less?

== _X_ ==


	18. Hypnosis

**Hypnosis**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: yes  
Violence: no  
Nudity: no  
Sex: mentioned  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

Malcolm gets to use his superpowers! ;D Okay, this is your last chance to figure out what's going on before the story basically tells you what's going on. If it's been driving you nuts. If you haven't figured it out already.

* * *

 **Hypnosis**

 **==#==**

Oliver sat calmly in the pleasantly neutral-toned office, looking about with mild curiosity. He looked much better now that he'd been allowed a safety razor. His smooth skin made him look years younger.

Malcolm rested his arms on the desk between them. "Don't be alarmed, Oliver. Your mother and I - all of your family - are concerned about your well-being. I think I can help, if you'll let me." He tipped one hand, gave a serious, direct look. "Will you let me help you?"

"Of course, Uncle Malcolm."

"Good." He smiled gently. Then he stood, moved around the desk. "I want to try a relaxation and meditation therapy. This will help us recover your memories."

Oliver shifted nervously, frowned as he contemplated whether he wanted to remember.

"Some of these memories may be traumatic," Malcolm said softly, in a reassuring voice, "but that is what's causing you these problems. Now that you're safe, you can work through these experiences with me, and put them to rest so they won't trouble you any more."

Oliver rubbed his palms on his knees. "I guess that's good. That's what Dr. Arita told me."

Malcolm nodded. "Just relax." He pulled a small crystal orb from his pocket. It had inclusions within it that caught the light in different patterns as it turned. He rose and moved around the desk, sat against the corner of it, and showed the crystal to Oliver. "Take a deep breath."

The boy tried, but he was wound tight.

"Good. And another." Malcolm began slowly turning the crystal in his hand, back and forth. "Sit back. Yes, that's it. Look deep into the center of the crystal."

He let the scintillation dazzle Oliver's eyes a few moments, then began to lead him into a hypnotic trance.

"Relax... Focus... Feel the tension drawn from your body... Your muscles will unclench. Your posture will sink down, down, down, into the chair...

"Now I will count slowly backwards from ten. You will feel calm and drowsy, and when I reach one, you will be in a deep trance.

"10. Relax

"9. Breathe slowly.

"8. Your eyelids are so heavy."

He let his voice soften, become barely more than a whisper. A gentle suggestion on the breeze.

"7. The crystal lights are so pretty.

"6. Your mind is peaceful.

"5. Rest.

"4. Listen only to the sound of my voice.

"3. You will obey me.

"2. Close your eyes.

"One."

Oliver's eyes drooped, then fell closed. His breathing was soft and even. Unhurried.

"Oliver, can you hear me?"

"Yes."

Malcolm set the crystal on the desk directly in Oliver's line of sight. "Open your eyes."

He did so, his blue-grey eyes automatically fixing on the crystal.

"How do you feel?"

"Tired... Resting."

"Good. Your body will remain relaxed, sluggish, and heavy." Malcolm looked down on his subject. "Your mind and I are going to take a trip back, back to your last voyage on The Queen's Gambit."

He studied Oliver's face. Apprehension touched the corners of his eyes, but he did not move or blink. "Did your father tell you anything important during your trip?"

After a moment, Oliver said, "'That is not going to end well.'"

Malcolm frowned. "To what was he referring?"

"I brought Sara on the trip. Laurel's sister."

Malcolm thought back. "Your girlfriend's sister? Why?"

"To get some."

That was something he didn't need to hear. All right, focus. "Did you and your father discuss any of his business dealings?"

"No."

"Any projects he was working on?"

"No."

"The reason for the trip to China?"

"No."

Malcolm began to think Moira was right. Oliver's return and the Robin Hood Vigilante's simultaneous appearance was just a coincidence. "Did your father talk about me?"

"No."

"What did you talk about?"

"Not a lot. I spent most of the time in my cabin with Sara."

Malcolm grimaced slightly. "Let's go to the time when The Gambit sank-"

"No. I don't want to."

"It's going to be all right. Those events can't hurt you any more." The boy was shaking his head, reluctant. "Oliver, you will wrap your emotions in a thick gauze. They will be muffled until you can barely feel them." He observed the young man as he settled. "Now, The Gambit is about to sink. What are you doing?"

"Drinking wine with Sara." Great, more playboy exploits. "There's a storm. She's counting the seconds between lightning and thunder."

"Then what happens?"

"I try to distract her. I try to get her in the mood, so we can fuck again."

Malcolm clenched his teeth, but it was only the raw output of a horny young man. As numb as Oliver was now, his voice barely held any inflection. "Did you have intercourse with her?" They could skip that part.

"No. There's a loud crack of thunder, it hit the boat, the cabin flipped sideways." His voice held an agitated tinge, but his body remained still and relaxed. "We're screaming. The water... I can't reach Sara, she's down in the corner, the water rushes in, she's screaming my name I-" He stopped, agitation fighting the lethargy of his body and mind. "I watch her die before my eyes." His entranced state cannot stop tears.

Malcolm looked guiltily down at his hands, clasped over his knee.

"I try to get to the door. It's sideways, I can't get it open. The water rushes in. I can't... I can't see. I can't breathe." His breath now became ragged, a pale shadow of his panic. Then the trance dragged him back to a state of calm.

Malcolm's heart grew heavy. He'd learned all he could about his old friend's last fateful days. He should spare Oliver this pain, but curiosity got the better of him. "How did you get to the life raft?"

"My father pulled me out of the water."

"Your father? He was alive?"

"Yes."

Malcolm gaped at him. "You told everyone he died when The Gambit sank."

"I lied."

"Why?"

"Because I'm ashamed of what really happened."

This was important. Malcolm leaned forward. "What did happen?"

"We drifted for days. We were barely alive." Oliver's voice suddenly changed in timbre. "I don't wanna go there. I don't wanna, Unca Makum."

There it was again, Oliver's regression into a childlike state. "Okay, Ollie," he reassured the boy. "I don't want you to have to go there, either."

Oliver no longer looked at the crystal. His eyes turned up to Malcolm, pleading, his whole face a picture of misery, and the longing for a grown-up to make everything better.

"Can you find big Oliver? This is important, Ollie. I need to talk to him."

Ollie shook his head.

Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose. How was he going to work around this defense mechanism?

"Is Mommy coming back?"

Malcolm sighed. "She's coming back, but I don't know when." Ollie looked so crestfallen, Malcolm's heart went out to him. "It'll be all right, son. Would you like a cookie?"

Ollie shook his head again. "'M sirsty."

"What would you like to drink?"

"Appa joos!"

"Okay." Malcolm smiled fondly, stood, and offered his hand. "Let's raid the kitchens."

"Yay!"

== _#_ ==

Ollie didn't know anything about the Bad Place, except it was an island full of monsters. Clearly the island Oliver had been stranded on had not been deserted, and something traumatic had happened to him there to cause his personality to split. Normally, this happened with childhood abuse, and the latent adult personality awoke to protect the inner child. Though Malcolm supposed a grown man could take refuge from his horrors within the innocence of a child's mind.

They got juice and lunch, and then Malcolm took Ollie in for a nap. He got the boy settled down, through Ollie's stubborn reluctance. "But I don't wanna take a nap! 'M not sleepy!"

"Ollie, you will sleep, _now_." Malcolm snapped his fingers, and the boy went out like a light. Good, the hypnotic suggestions were still working. "Oliver, can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Are you asleep?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now I'm going to tell you some things you won't remember when you wake up. But your subconscious will remember them, and obey them implicitly..."

== _X_ ==


	19. Trigger

**Trigger**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: yes  
Violence: yes  
Nudity: no  
Sex: no  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

Sorry for the delay. Bad news is... there's some scenes after this that I haven't nailed down yet. So. Yes. More delays.

Good news! THIS is what's going on! (And just like _Sixth Sense_ , now you have to read the whole thing over again and see if it makes more sense! ;p)

* * *

 **Trigger**

==#==

Oliver had not been alone on a deserted island. If he had been, he might have fared better. There were mercenaries who had captured and tortured him. There was an ASIS agent who bullied, then befriended him.

This man, Malcolm figured out, looked a lot like the late prostitute Charlie. He had to wonder where that relationship was heading, and why Charlie ended up with a blade in his brain.

Then there was the mysterious Chinese officer, and his daughter. Somehow, the former ended up dead, and the latter joined the two men as another castaway.

The details grew more and more vague as the narrative flowed onward. Gaps in the story, black holes in Oliver's memory. But none of them stood out as an inciting traumatic event.

Surely the torture had been the worst of it. He'd survived that and had even withheld information out of loyalty to his rescuer. To be frank, Malcolm hadn't known Oliver had it in him to be that strong.

Perhaps it was a slow erosion of Oliver's psyche over those five years, chipping away at his sanity until it lay in shattered pieces. Putting it together could five more years, if it was even possible at all. Malcolm had to persevere. He owed Robert that much.

"We saw something on the proximity detector. Not animals. W-We went to investigate."

"All three of you?"

"Yes."

Malcolm looked at him expectantly for a minute. When he didn't continue, he prompted, "Go on."

"We left the fuselage. We took weapons. When we got near the intruders' location... Shado... We were playing around. She went to flank them."

Oliver's narrative slowed. Despite the trance, he was showing signs of agitation. They were nearing another trigger. As they moved through Oliver's time on the island, they'd hit many, like the quite literal landmines scattered on Lian Yu. And Malcolm worked to defuse each one.

"Take a deep breath," he told Oliver. "Grip the arm of the chair to stay anchored. You will view these memories on a screen. You're safe from them now."

Oliver's breath was shaky, his knuckles white on the chair.

"What happened next?" Malcolm prodded.

"I - there's - Ahead - a gunshot. Shado! We run! I-I-" He drew a sharp breath. "I've never killed anything before! I can't! I can't do it!"

"Did you kill someone, Oliver? It's all right. Breathe."

"No! No! No!" He started shaking. "I can't do it! I don't want to! But I'm so hungry!" he wailed. "And it hurts! I'm so hungry..."

Malcolm frowned. "Are you talking about the pheasant? Oliver, we've been over that. Now we're walking through the forest on Lian Yu, with Slade and Shado. What-?"

"No!" Oliver cried in his tiny, childlike voice. "The monster! The monster! It's coming!"

== _#_ ==

Oliver saw the rise, the trees he knew... no, he didn't want to go there! He turned and fled, heart hammering in fear. He had to get away, get away.

"Oliver. Oliver, use your anchor. You're _here_. Come back."

Branches slapped at his arms as he ran. He slid to a halt in the loamy soil. Laurel. He could only mouth her name. Laurel turned to him, with that innocent smile, that tilt of her head. Yet she didn't seem to see him. She stared, unseeing, flat like a photograph, captured in time.

Then she turned away, to lead him back the way he'd come. Desperation lent him a voice. "Laurel! Wait! Let me explain. Please, please, please, _please!_ " He dropped to his knees. "Laurel, I beg you to hear me out."

She stopped. Turned. Came back, her smile fading.

"I know it was stupid and selfish," Oliver said, his words tumbling out with his need to explain, to make her see, to understand. "Laurel, you _loved_ me. And that terrified me. Deep down, I didn't believe I deserved that love. So I tried to wreck it, to... to prove I was unworthy. Or to... test your love..."

His head dropped in shame. He forced himself to look up at her. "But then I almost _died_ , and I realized... I do love you, too. And when I was tortured, I realized that I had hurt you. I didn't want to come back. I didn't want to face that.

"Please, I'm begging you, forgive me. I was wrong! So wrong!" His heart bled out the words. "And I'm so sorry! I _need_ you!" His voice broke, wracked with utter despair. "I need you to help me get out of this hell..."

Finally, she looked down at him. "You're right."

He held his breath.

"You don't deserve to come back."

"No!"

"Stay here!" Her eyes flashed, her lips twisted in a snarl. "Stay here forever, Oliver! Stay dead!" She wavered, then disappeared.

"Nooooo...!" Oliver collapsed in the dirt, covering his head with his arms. "Nooo..." he sobbed with one last broken breath.

Then darkness descended.

== _#_ ==

Malcolm tried to regain control as the flashback sent Oliver into a seizure-like state. "Oliver. Oliver, use your anchor. You're _here_. Come back."

Oliver's eyes flew open; he stood swiftly. His eyes darted around the room, then fixed on Malcolm. "You."

Malcolm's breath quickened, but he rose slowly, hands out and down non-threateningly. "I'm only here to help." This wasn't a good position to fight - the space behind the desk was too narrow. But moving out from behind it would seem too aggressive.

"Help me?" the man scoffed. "You want to help, stay out of my way."

"And you are...?"

"You don't know?"

"I don't believe we've met," Malcolm said, continuing slowly and calmly. "I'm Malcolm Merlyn."

"Hunter."

Now everything began to become clear. "And you've been hunting down certain people. From the List."

Hunter startled. "How did you-?" He cut himself off, too late not to betray his knowledge, his guilt.

Malcolm smiled. "I have my own copy of the List. Perhaps we can help each other."

== _#_ ==

Hunter paced like a caged tiger. He'd wanted to attack Merlyn, but somehow... No, that wouldn't work. Merlyn was crafty, just like Waller. He had to bide his time. Just like Waller, there'd come a day when Merlyn would become weak, vulnerable, and then Hunter would strike.

For now, Hunter would accept his position as foot soldier under Merlyn's command. "All right," he said, in answer to the man's offer. He returned to the chair and sat back at ease, legs splayed comfortably. "i'll work with you. What do you need?"

== _#_ ==

Malcolm couldn't get over the complete metamorphosis that had come over Oliver. He'd transformed from a frightened mouse into a confident killer. Malcolm almost didn't recognize him. Like Moira, he realized.

To Hunter, he said, "Well, what skill sets do you have? Clearly, you are an accomplished archer."

Hunter nodded. "Assassination, interrogation... Do you have anything to drink?"

"That wouldn't be a good idea with the meds you're on."

Hunter snarled.

"I can see about adjusting them," Malcolm said. He returned to his own seat, clasped his hands lightly on the desktop.

"Infiltration, electronics, bombs...," Hunter continued listing his area of expertise.

"Where exactly did you pick up these skills on a 'deserted' island?"

Hunter laughed. "Not on the island. Well, the archery and hand-to-hand. I did a stint as an agent in Hong Kong, spent over a year in the Russian Bratva."

"And yet... they found you stranded and alone on Lian Yu." Malcolm frowned. "Or so the stories go."

Hunter only smirked, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"I'm curious how you got the List."

"My father had it." He grew more somber, looked off to the side.

"He told you to go after the people on it?"

"He told me to 'right his wrongs.'" Hunter shrugged. "When names from the List started showing up in the news well... it seemed clear what to do."

Malcolm nodded, musing over these things. Plans started coalescing in his mind. It was lucky he'd stepped in to handle Oliver when he had.

Hunter broke him out of his musings with a question. "What about you? You didn't learn to fight in a corporate boardroom."

"You'd be surprised," he joked back. Then he said, "I've... dabbled in some martial arts classes." He didn't want to reveal all his secrets, or his true strength. This Hunter seemed to thrive on ego, so Malcolm let him have that. And let the man underestimate him, because he no doubt planned to attack when an opportunity arose.

Malcolm needed more safeguards in his plans.

"So what happened, there on the island?" he asked Hunter.

"When?"

"You were telling me about an excursion in the forest. You were separated from Shado."

"Oh! Yeah, those bastards from The Amazo caught her. I ran in and kicked their asses, threw down on one guy. I bashed his face in with a rock." His lips stretched in a muted grin. "You shoulda seen Slade's face - like he'd seen a ghost. Guess he never thought I had it in me."

Malcolm felt cold creeping over him, and sympathised with the Australian agent. "And how did it make you feel?" he probed.

Hunter looked off, eyes focused on reliving the memory. "Mmm... powerful." He smiled his predator's smile.

== _X_ ==


	20. Russia

**Russia**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: yes  
Violence: yes  
Nudity: no  
Sex: mentioned/implied  
Other: torture

 _Author's Note:_

The scary thing about this story is... it's based entirely on canon. You don't think so? Keep reading... All will be revealed in time.

The chapter after this is not written, but I know what happens in it. Hopefully, I'll get some time!

* * *

 **Russia**

==#==

The Russians called him _Kapiushon_. The Hood. He knew it wasn't the hood that defined him, nor even the bow and arrows he favored. Quite simply, he was a hunter.

The Hunter looked down on his prey. The sight, the smell of blood excited him. The anticipation.

The power.

The Russian gangster was a big man. Hefty. Now helpless, tied to the heavy oak table. His face, normally hard, snarling, threatening, was now a sad ruin of blood and swollen flesh.

The Hunter removed the blindfold. He wanted to see the terror in this man's eyes. He leaned over him and growled low, "You are going to tell me what I need to know."

"Go to Hell."

The Hunter almost smiled. "A friend of mine showed me recently, a skinning technique used by hunters in Mongolia," he lied. Oliver had a difficult time dressing game with Slade. "They remove all the skin - and the thing was much larger than you - in less than 5 minutes. Which means you don't have very long to tell me what your boss is planning."

The gangster drew his lips back, ready to spit defiance and bravado, but something about the Hunter... his eyes, or perhaps that small little smile still on his face, made him change his mind. "I don't know anything!"

The smile bloomed larger. "I was hoping you'd say that."

The big Russian man shuddered, tugged at his bonds. The Hunter was not impressed. He rolled up his sleeves and went to his tool tray. in Russia, they had flensing knives. The Hunter pulled his from its leather sheath, watched the light glide along the honed steel blade. Warmth bloomed in the Hunter's belly. General Shrieve had died too quickly.

This... would be altogether different.

The Hunter concentrated on light touches. Skin deep. Human skin was so thin and soft, it parted under the flensing knife like a woman's unzipped dress, revealing the wet flesh beneath. It wasn't as neat of a job as the Hunter would have liked. The victim thrashed in his bonds as much as he could, as useless as it was. The Hunter had to grip his arm with his free hand, and still the cuts wavered and zigzagged with the movement.

Extremities first, the Hunter decided. It would help keep the victim alive longer. He figured he could do both forearms before the Russian broke, but he didn't count on the heightened nerve sensitivity in the hand and fingers. It was impossible to do them properly with them clenched so hard into a fist, but he had to try.

It was an experiment, after all.

It took less than the five minutes for the Russian to spill everything he knew. However, it took over fifty minutes for the Hunter to finish the skinning.

Judging by the volume and timbre of the victim's screams, it wasn't so much the peeling off of the skin as it was where and how the cuts were made. The belly fat interested him. The skin held the same sensitivity, but the fat insulated the muscle layer below. It might be that the fatty tissue lacked nerve endings, or it could simply be that his victim had passed out or gone into shock.

Either way, he was dead soon thereafter.

The Hunter practiced removing some of the bratva tattoos from his chest, but couldn't sustain his interest as the body cooled. His throbbing cock urged him to find a warm body for pleasure and release of a different kind. He threw a sheet over the remains so the others wouldn't see his handiwork. Only Anatoly. The man had more bravery than sense, sometimes.

Still, Anatoly knew the true value of the Hunter. He'd have someone dispose of the carcass.

== _X_ ==


	21. A Matter of Trust

**A Matter of Trust**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Mature  
Flavor: Drama  
Language: no  
Violence: no  
Nudity: no  
Sex: no  
Other: no

 _Author's Note:_

Special thanks to DarkEmpress for the kick in the butt to get a move on on this chapter, which was starting to become two chapters that covered too much of the same ground :/

* * *

 **A Matter of Trust**

==#==

Malcolm was fascinated by this completely new personality, Hunter. It wasn't that he neglected Oliver, but he needed to work out the puzzle of this very dangerous new player.

One day, he simply confronted Hunter. "Tell me about Charlie."

"Who?"

Malcolm produced the reproduction of the newspaper photo. "This man."

Hunter took one look and recoiled in his chair. "I don't know who that is."

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "You're lying."

"Look, I don't know anyth-"

"This man was murdered, stabbed through the eye."

"I don't know what you're talking ab-"

"You were seen with this man just before he was killed. He looks a lot like Slade, doesn't he?"

"I don't want to talk about that!"

"Did you kill him?" Malcolm insisted.

"I don't remember! I told you, I don't remember any of that!"

Malcolm eased off, recognizing the shift in Oliver's tone, his demeanor. "It's all right." He put the photo away. "I just thought we might have a breakthrough in recovering your memories."

"I'm not sure I want to." Oliver rubbed his temple, grimacing fiercely. "I have such a headache."

"Here, let me get something for you." Malcolm rose and went to the side table. He poured water from the pitcher and brought Oliver the glass. Then from his inner pocket he produced a pillbox. He gave one to Oliver.

Without hesitation, Oliver swallowed it and drank down the water.

"Better?" Malcolm queried.

"Ugh. Oliver still rubbed his head.

Forging on, Malcolm brought out the focus crystal. "Let's begin," he said with mild cheerfulness.

"Do we have to?" Oliver complained. "I just want to lie down."

"Your therapy is important, Oliver. The hypnosis will relax and refresh you."

The boy sighed. "All right."

"Good." Malcolm smiled.

==#==

Hunter knew everything that Oliver had forgotten, or had blocked out. In fact, it was now quite clear why Oliver thought he had been gone for only two years, and that he had spent his entire exile on the island.

Truth was much stranger than fiction, as Oliver - or rather, his emergent alter-ego - became an unwilling pawn in an ARGUS operation. But Hunter refused to talk about Slade, or how he left the island to become an agent in Hong Kong. He much preferred to talk about his missions, and his exploits in Russia. He revealed a lot about himself, by what he emphasized and what he glossed over. Malcolm made copious notes, in his own shorthand, about Hunter's proclivities and weaknesses. He adjusted Hunter's meds as promised, though not necessarily as Hunter wanted.

Hunter hated captivity, often disappearing to wherever in the depths of Oliver's mindscape he went, leaving Oliver, or even little Ollie, to deal with the day to day drudgery. Which suited Malcolm's plans quite well. He knew Hunter would never submit to being hypnotized, but Oliver was quite amenable, which allowed Malcolm to do his work.

He wasn't sure at this time what he was going to do with Oliver. Should he tell him about his alternate personalities? Try to work with him to reintegrate them?

That was the standard treatment, but Malcolm decided to hold off until he reviewed the entire five years. Then he could decide on the best course of action. He couldn't rush in blindly. Hunter was hiding things from him

Malcolm was also working on plans to utilize Hunter. It might have been good to have him as a bodyguard, especially after the assassination attempt, but there was no way he could explain how and why Oliver Queen was trailing him around.

Moira hadn't come up with any leads on who had arranged the hit, but she was looking closely into each of the group's members. From what he'd seen at the awards ceremony, he suspected Triad involvement. That suggested Frank Chen - or was meant to. Chen wouldn't be stupid enough to use such an obvious connection, would he? The Triad had the answers, but that organization was extremely difficult to crack.

Hunter would come in handy there, once he had a solid lead to follow. If he proved trustworthy.

==#==

Some days later, Malcolm said, "Well, Hunter, I think it's time we paid a visit to your... 'lair,' shall we call it?"

Hunter perked up; he'd been itching to get out of this place. Best not to show it. "'Lair'? You really have a flair for the dramatic, Mr, Merlyn." _Mr. Merlyn, Mr. Merlyn._ Guy was such a pompous ass prick, Hunter loaded the title with all the contempt he could muster. He longed to call him 'Malcolm' to his face, just to knock him off his high horse. But not today. Maybe he'd save it for the moment just before he jumped the guy and started punching his face in.

Merlyn gave a conciliatory smile. "At any rate, if you want to work jobs for me, we should go pick up your gear."

"We?" Hunter scowled. "How about I go get my stuff? In fact, how about I go live at my place, and when you get a job, you call me?"

"Does your place have living quarters? Or did you mean Queen Mansion? Because you know your mother doesn't want you there."

Hunter chewed his lip. Queen Mansion, where his hot sister lived. _Dammit!_ Gawky, pig-tailed Thea never looked so good in that schoolgirl uniform. Why'd she have to grow up with such long, luscious, creamy legs - Hunter bit down. _Goddammit!_ He had to get out of this fucking - or would that be 'un-fucking' - monastery and tap some sweet young ass - _not_ related to him!

Merlyn continued talking. "I don't believe our relationship is at a level of trust where I can just let you roam about unsupervised."

"Yet you want me to trust you enough to bring you to my secret... 'lair.'" Well, it sounded better than 'hideout.'

Merlyn spread his hands. "You gain trust by giving it."

Apparently, the fat cat businessman's own rules didn't apply to himself. Hunter considered. It would be good to get out of this dump. Any taste of freedom would be welcome, and would present more opportunities to escape. Better opportunities.

"All right," he said slowly. "When did you want to go?"

==#==

Hunter was surprised Merlyn didn't bring bodyguards; he thought he'd have to fight tooth and nail to reject their tagging along. Either Merlyn was an idiot, or he took this trust thing way too seriously. It would be so much easier to kill him in the lair and make the body vanish.

Then, his secret would remain safe.

But somehow, the right opportunity never presented itself. They went in, retrieved Hunter's gear and his footlocker, and came back.

Hunter was not allowed to keep his gear in his room, the boring blue pit of hell. No, Merlyn still held him under lock and key, and Hunter seethed.

 _Bide your time._

He'd been in worse prisons.

== _X_ ==


End file.
